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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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JUVENILE 
STORY  WRITING 


JUVENILE 
STORY  WRITING 


BY 

MABEL  L.  ROBINSON,  Ph.D. 

Instructor  in  Story  Writing,  Columbia  Universitt 

(Extension  Teaching) 

Author  of  "The  Curriculum  of  the  Woman's  College," 

"Db.  Tam  O'Shanteb,"  "Little  Lucla,"  etc. 


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NEW  lORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO.,  Inc. 


Copyright,  1922 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


AU  rights  reserved 


First  Printing     . 
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


For  permission  to  make  quotations,  the  author 
expresses  her  gratitude  to  the  following: 

DuFFiELD  &  Company  for  permission  to  quote 
from  The  History  of  Mr.  Polly,  by  H.  G.  Wells. 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  permission 
to  quote  from  The  Secret  Garden,  by  Frances 
Hodgson  Burnett;  The  Story  of  Br.  Dolittle,  by 
Hugh  Lofting. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  Two  College  Girls,  by  Helen  Dawes 
Brown. 

LoTHROP,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for  permis- 
sion to  quote  from  What  Happened  to  Inger 
Johanne,  translated  from  the  Norwegian  of  Dik- 
ken  Zwilgmeyer  by  Emilie  Poulson. 

Professor  Edward  L.  Thorndike  for  permis- 
sion to  quote  from  Educational  Psychology. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  permission  to 
quote  from  Margaret  Ogilvie,  by  James  Barrie. 

vii 


viii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Mrs.  Seldof  Bacon  for  permission  to  quote 
from  Smith  College  Stories,  published  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  Peacock  Pie,  by  Walter  de  la  Mare; 
Understood  Betsy,  by  Dorothy  Canfield. 

Little,  Brown  &  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  Little  Women,  by  Louisa  M.  Alcott. 

Frederick  Warne  &  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  The  Tailor  of  Gloucester,  by  Beatrix 
Potter. 

The  Macmillan  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  The  Old  Tobacco  Shop,  by  William 
Bowen. 

Trustees  of  the  Estate  of  Samuel  L.  Clem- 
ens, The  Mark  Twain  Company  and  Harper  & 
Brothers  for  permission  to  quote  from  Tom 
Sawyer,  by  S.  L.  Clemens. 

DouBLEDAY,  Page  &  CoMPANY  foT  permission  to 
quote  from  Frank  of  Freedo7n  Hill  (The  Destiny 
of  Dan  VI)  by  Samuel  Derieux. 

RuDYARD  Kipling  and  Doubleday,  Page  &  Com- 
pany for  permission  to  quote  from  Kim,  Stalky  & 
Co.,  and  Little  Tohrah,  by  Rudyard  Kipling. 

Professor  Woodworth  of  Columbia  University 
for  permission  to  quote  from  a  test  of  Mental 
Imagery. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  ix 

The  New  York  Tribune  for  permission  to 
quote  from  an  article  by  Mr.  Heywood  Broun  in 
the  New  York  Tribune  of  February  7,  1921. 

E.  P.  DuTTON  &  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  Here  and  Now  Stories,  by  Lucy 
Sprague  Mitchell. 

The  Literary  Eeview  of  the  New  York  Eve- 
ning Post  for  permission  to  quote  from  an  article 
by  Mr.  Hugh  Lofting. 


FOREWORD 


Although  many  books  on  story  writing  have 
been  evolved  for  the  use  of  the  beginner,  they 
have  all  been  directed  toward  the  creation  of 
stories  for  adults.  The  art  of  story  telling  for 
children  has  been  the  basis  for  a  number  of  books, 
but  the  technique  of  story  writing  for  them  has 
never  been  separated  from  that  of  writing  for 
adults. 

Work  with  my  classes  in  Juvenile  Writing  at 
Columbia  University  has  convinced  me  that  there 
is  a  legitimate  place  for  a  book  which  deals  with 
the  special  needs  of  young  people  in  their  litera- 
ture. The  present  text  has  grown  out  of  lectures 
and  discussions  connected  with  the  classes  at  the 
University.  This  book  is  intended  for  parents, 
teachers,  writers,  or  any  person  who  is  interested 
in  an  attempt  to  provide  for  children  the  kind  of 
writing  which  will  satisfy  their  growing  needs 
and  will  develop  in  them  a  hunger  for  more  and 
better  sustenance. 

The  lists  of  books  appended  to  the  various 
chapters  are  by  no  means  meant  to  be  exhaustive. 


xii  FOREWORD 

They  are  suggestive,  rather,  of  reading  which  may 
serve  to  direct  thought  and  to  stimulate  effort. 
Any  good  library  or  bookshop  furnishes  complete 
lists  of  desirable  books  for  children. 

For  her  keen  criticism  and  valuable  suggestions 
I  desire  to  express  my  gratitude  and  appreciation 
to  Helen  R.  Hull. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Question  of  Writing  for  Children  1 

II.  Sources  of  Material 23 

III.  Adventure  Stories 34 

IV.  Fairytales 46 

V.  Animal  Stories 60 

VI.  School  or  College  Stories       ....  73 

VII.  The  Use  OF  Detail 88 

VIII.  Characterization 106 

IX.  Dialogue 126 

X.  Plot 144 

XI.  Theme 173 

XII.  The  Angle  of  Narration 183 

XIII.  Chapter  Arrangement  and  Development  192 

XIV.  The  Problem  OF  Sustaining  Interest      .  211 
XV.  Stories  About  Children  for  Adults  .     .  222 


XIU 


JUVENILE 
STORY  WRITING 


JUVENILE  STORY   WRITING 


CHAPTEE  I 

The  Question  of  Wkiting  for  Children 

Why  a  special  technique? 

The  question  is  frequently  asked,  "Why  spe- 
cial training  in  story  writing  for  children?"  Be- 
hind the  inquiry  may  lie  either  of  two  prevalent 
views.  One  theory  holds  that  any  person,  though 
he  lack  the  training,  experience,  and  sldll  neces- 
sary for  adult  w^-iting,  is  able  to  write  children's 
stories;  the  other  that  anyone  who  knows  enough 
to  write  for  adults  can,  ipso  facto,  write  for  chil- 
dren. This  classification  obviously  leaves  no  one 
who  needs  to  consider  special  technique  of  writing 
for  children.  The  results  of  the  two  theories  ap- 
pear in  the  output  of  juvenile  literature.  Those 
who  do  not  know  enough  to  write  for  adults  pro- 
duce a  good  deal  of  literature  for  children ;  those 
who  can  write  for  adults,  with  some  notable  ex- 
ceptions, remain  in  that  field  through  lack  of  in- 
terest in  juvenile  work  or  realization  of  inability 
to  handle  it. 


2  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  prevailing  theories,  however,  do  not  take 
into  account  the  people  who  are  interested  in 
children,  who  reahze  the  difference  in  their  psy- 
chology all  along  the  line  from  early  childliood 
through  adolescence,  and  who  feel  therefore  that 
this  psychological  difference  demands  differences 
in  approach  in  writing.  Writing  for  children  be- 
comes to  this  group  a  problem  in  itself  which 
cannot  be  solved  by  made-over  adult  technique. 
A  child  is  not  an  adult,  undersized  physically  and 
mentally;  he  is  a  complete  human  being  who  on 
his  way  from  childliood  to  maturity  has  certain 
special  needs  entirely  different  from  those  of  the 
adult.  These  needs  reach  over  into  his  reading 
as  elsewhere,  and  only  the  person  who  under- 
stands them  can  make  adequate  response. 

Part  of  the  business  of  growing  up  is  acquiring 
experience.  The  child's  opportunities  for  this 
acquisition  are  limited  in  many  directions.  Civi- 
lized man  has  always  found  some  of  his  experience 
in  his  reading.  He  realizes  that  he  has  time  to 
touch  the  world  only  in  one  spot  at  a  time  and  in 
his  eagerness  to  find  out  more  about  it,  he  turns 
to  books.  The  child,  still  more  limited  and  still 
more  eager,  follows  suit.  Consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, he  increases  his  experience  every  time 
he  opens  a  book.  The  accretion  may  result  in  day- 
dreams and  the  acquisition  of  a  set  of  false 
standards,  or  it  may  have  authentic  value.  Auto- 
biography gives  us  plenty  of  evidence  of  both 
results.    Since  this  is  true,  the  book  which  gives 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN       3 

the  child  experience  outside  of  his  personal  limits 
should  be  carefully  scrutinized  in  the  making  and 
in  the  using. 

The  answer,  then,  to  the  inquiry  about  the 
necessity  for  special  technique  in  writing  for 
children  lies  in  the  psychology  of  the  children 
themselves.  To  meet  them  on  their  own  grounds 
we  must  approach  them  as  equals,  not  as  adults 
writing  down  to  them.  We  must  know  their  kind 
of  dialogue,  their  demands  upon  action  and 
climax,  their  grasp  of  plot  complexity,  their  sort 
of  humor,  pathos,  sentiment,  their  requirements 
upon  emphasis  moral,  educational,  imaginative, 
or  factual.  We  must  know  how  to  capture  their 
interest  and  how  to  hold  it.  Above  all,  we  must 
know  their  possibilities  and  use  them;  their  limi- 
tations have  long  enough  been  the  basis  of  their 
fiction. 

Most  teaching  of  adult  fiction  writing  consists 
of  the  construction  of  a  finished  product,  the 
story,  with  only  an  indirect  analysis  of  the  au- 
dience. Here  the  author  is  writing  for  people  on 
his  own  level.  But  the  problem  of  writing  for 
young  people  is  that  of  a  relation  between  the 
book  and  the  child.  Constantly  in  writing  for 
children,  an  awareness  of  the  psychology  of  the 
child  at  his  different  stages  of  development  is 
necessary.  The  writer  of  this  book  has  attempted 
to  use  technique  in  establishing  this  relation  be- 
tween the  book  and  the  child. 

Users    of   juvenile   fiction,   mothers,   teachers, 


4  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

librarians,  as  well  as  writers  of  juvenile  fiction, 
need  to  evaluate  children's  books  for  selection 
and  emplo5T:nent.  The  critical  viewpoint  is  es- 
sential to  both  groups.  "WHiether  technique  is 
studied  for  the  purpose  of  writing  books  or  of 
selecting  them,  it  forms  the  basis  of  critical  stand- 
ards which  ought  to  call  to  account  much  that  is 
worthless  or  weak  in  juvenile  fiction.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  the  child  himself,  then',  and  his 
developing  demands,  the  writer  needs  to  know  his 
audience  and  his  means  of  reaching  it. 

Why  write  for  children^ 

Writing  for  children  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  writer  is  an  enormous  amount  of  fun.  Un- 
like the  adult  story  which  must  sooner  or  later 
centre  around  or  reflect  the  effects  of  a  love  prob- 
lem, the  juvenile  story  is  unlimited  in  the  sources 
from  which  it  may  draw  its  material.  Setting 
aside  love  making,  card  playing,  and  golf,  the 
pleasure  giving  activities  of  the  adult  are  all 
open  to  the  young.  That  is,  the  adult  may  put 
over  on  any  sixteen-year-old,  any  experiences 
which  were  interesting,  exciting,  or  amusing,  and 
find  that  he  has  enhanced  their  fiction  value. 
Motor  boating,  sailing,  camping,  exploring,  keep- 
ing the  wolf  from  the  door,  facing  danger  of  any 
kind,  making  a  success  or  failure  of  any  kind, 
almost  everything  which  partakes  of  active  life 
can  serve  as  the  basis  of  a  juvenile  plot.  Thus 
the  author  turns  back  to  the  children  all  the  in- 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN      5 

terest  which  he  is  getting  out  of  life  and  all  tlie 
interest  which  he  would  like  to  get.  And  he  may 
pick  and  choose  his  material  from  such  endless 
sources  that  his  pen  ought  never  to  run  dry. 

Writing  for  children  with  the  reader  as  the 
point  of  consideration  is  even  more  satisfactory. 
Your  book  w^ill  not  be  skimmed  over  to  be  sent 
back  to  the  library  or  shoved  into  a  bookcase 
where  it  will  collect  dust ;  it  will  not  be  forgotten 
a  few  days  after  it  is  read.  If  your  book  is  worth 
pubUcation — and  unfortunately  a  large  propor- 
tion of  juveniles  is  not — it  mil  be  read  and 
reread,  thought  about,  made  a  model  of  action, 
developed  into  an  influence  potent  enough  to  make 
modern  psychologists  question  the  value  of 
allowing  day-dreaming  children  to  read. 

Writing  for  children  with  the  publisher  in  mind 
is  still  another  point.  Its  place  in  the  consider- 
ing survey  of  the  beginner  is  often  foremost.  But 
as  a  matter  of  fact  nobody  wants  to  write  with- 
out the  prospect  of  seeing  the  result  in  print.  If 
there  is  no  demand  for  his  work  when  he  has  it 
done,  he  finds  little  stimulus  for  further  effort. 
The  first  situation  which  the  prospective  writer 
of  juveniles  faces  is  contradictory  in  its  encour- 
agement and  discouragement.  The  short  story 
is  likely  to  be  the  object  of  the  beginner's  earliest 
effort.  But  he  finds  when  he  gets  his  story  ready 
to  send  out  to  magazines  that  curiously  few  of 
them  are  waiting  to  receive  it.  While  in  the  last 
twenty  years  short  story  magazines  for  adults 


6  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

have  increased  until  only  a  news-stand  can  keep 
track  of  them,  the  children's  magazines  have 
remained  practically  static.  The  Youths'  Com- 
panion and  St.  Nicholas  remain  imperishable 
from  one  generation  to  the  next.  Wide  Awake, 
Chatterbox  in  magazine  form,  and  The  Nursery 
have  disappeared.  Now  and  then  a  women's  mag- 
azine makes  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  publish 
one  juvenile  a  month,  but  the  existence  of  the 
page  is  precarious. 

AVith  the  organization  of  boys  through  Scout 
movements,  and  their  increasing  demands  for  out- 
door information  and  stories,  magazines  for  boys 
have  sprung  up.  The  girls,  following  along 
slowly  in  active  interests,  are  gradually  receiving 
some  attention  from  editors ;  but  their  magazines 
are  as  yet  negligible.  Newspaper  syndicates  offer 
bedtime  stories  for  very  little  children,  and 
church  and  Sunday  school  papers  publish  with 
or  without  payment — the  difference  is  slight — 
stories  suitable  for  their  readers.  On  the  whole, 
the  magazine  field  for  juvenile  writing  is  cramped 
as  to  its  size  and  restricted  as  to  the  quality  of 
the  stories  which  may  thrive  in  it. 

If,  however,  the  reward  for  the  stories  proves 
large  in  proportion  to  their  scarcity,  the  writer 
wlio  is  interested  in  children's  stories  may  still 
feel  that  he  can  afford  to  give  them  his  time.  The 
scarcity  exists  unfortunately  only  in  the  demand; 
the  supply  is  overwhelming.  Editors  of  chil- 
dren's   magazines    when    they    send    back    your 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN      7 

manuscripts  with  the  regretful  statement  that 
they  are  overstocked  are  usually  speakiiif^  the 
literal  truth.  And  since  they  rarely  find  occasion 
to  raise  their  standards,  they  even  more  rarely 
raise  their  prices.  The  writer  who  receives  sev- 
enty-five dollars  for  a  story  may  consider  himself 
near  the  maximum;  the  writer  who  receives  five 
does  not  need  to  be  told  that  he  is  near  the  mini- 
mum, but  he  at  least  sees  himself  in  print  which 
is  no  end  of  stimulus  to  the  beginner. 

One  is,  nevertheless,  inclined  to  look  beyond  to 
the  time  when  he  is  no  longer  a  beginner.  What 
then?  "Try  adult  stories,"  advised  a  magazine 
editor.  *'We  can  pay  you  three  times  as  much 
for  one." 

*'But  why  should  you?"  protested  the  author. 
**Not  one  of  your  adult  readers  is  going  to  re- 
member your  highest-priced  story  two  weeks. 
Only  the  children  really  care  for  their  stories." 

"They  don't  buy  the  magazines  and  they  don't 
advertise," — two  sufficiently  clear  reasons  even 
for  an  impractical  author  who  is  interested  in 
children. 

But  now  for  the  encouraging  side  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  very  qualities  which  make  children  our 
best  audience  make  them  our  largest  buyers.  Be- 
cause children  will  read  their  books  over  and 
over  until  any  parent  considers  the  bookcase  an 
infallible  resource  for  rainy  days  and  convales- 
cence, because  they  are  moved  to  live  the  lives  of 
their  heroes  and  must,  therefore,  have  constant 


8  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

recourse  to  sources,  because  books  are  about  the 
only  thing  that  will  amuse  a  child  and  at  the  same 
time  keep  him  quiet,  the  juvenile  book  is  not  only 
a  profitable  seller  but  a  constant  one.'  Some  pub- 
lisher has  said  that  a  good  juvenile  is  equivalent 
to  an  old  age  pension  for  its  author.  The  life 
of  a  book  for  adults,  no  matter  how  popular  it 
may  be,  is  rarely  over  a  year.  The  life  of  the 
juvenile  goes  on  from  generation  to  generation. 
In  such  wise  do  the  children  reward  the  author 
who  will  stand  by  them! 

Moreover  even  the  least  literary  of  parents 
finds  it  expedient  to  have  his  child  own  his  books. 
Libraries  are  not  always  convenient;  the  story 
must  be  where  it  can  be  reached  in  time  of  need. 
A  well-filled  bookshelf  is  insurance  of  peace  as 
well  as  of  profit.  As  active  in  its  growth  as  the 
magazine  has  been  static,  the  field  for  children's 
books  has  expanded  amazingly  in  the  last  twenty 
years. 

Children's  Week  devoted  to  advertising,  re- 
viewing, and  selling  their  books  rounds  up,  once 
a  year  at  least,  the  books  and  their  buyers  in  a 
way  that  is  profitable  for  both.  Christmas  sea- 
son exhibits  of  children's  books  in  the  public 
libraries  have  helped  children  and  their  parents 
to  get  acquainted  with  books  and  make  a  lei- 
surely choice  of  them  as  they  rarely  can  in  book 
shops.  Where  a  decade  ago  a  child's  book  was 
both  scarce  and  expensive,  the  market  is  now 
flooded  with  stories  to  suit  every  taste  an'd  any 


.QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN      9 

purse.  Inevitably  much  of  the  output  is  worth- 
less. If  the  ground  is  rich  enough  to  produce  such 
a  rapid  development  of  crops,  it  is  bound  to  bear 
some  weeds.  But  the  field  of  juvenile  book  writ- 
ing offers  on  the  whole  an  encouraging  outlook 
for  the  producer. 

Does  this  line  of  demarcation  between  the  two 
parts  of  the  juvenile  field,  the  short  story  and 
the  book,  then,  outlaw  the  short  story  writer  from 
participation  in  the  work  which  he  finds  to  his 
taste  ?  Not  at  all !  On  the  contrary,  it  reveals  to 
him  prospects  for  his  work  which  are  most  beguil- 
ing. 

As  we  point  out  in  the  section  on  chapters,  the 
juvenile  book  in  its  structure  is  a  series  of  short 
stories,  each  of  which  forms  a  chapter.  These 
chapters  are  strung  like  beads  on  the  strong  wire 
of  a  unifying  interest,  but  each  one,  in  order  to 
hold  the  interest  of  the  child,  must  be  more  or 
less  of  a  complete  incident  within  itself.  The 
juvenile  book  is  a  series  of  stories  in  chapters 
bound  together  by  a  thread  of  unity  in  the  form 
of  a  solution  of  a  problem.  To  illustrate  by  the 
book  Forest  Castaivays,  by  Frederick  Orin  Bart- 
lett,  a  tale  of  two  boys  lost  in  the  Maine  woods 
in  winter:  In  the  Robinson  Crusoe  struggle  for 
existence,  the  boys  have  many  separate  adven- 
tures forming  different  chapters,  each  fairly  com- 
plete in  its  own  problem  and  solution;  the  whole 
series  is  bound  together  by  the  solution  of  the 


10  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

large  problem  of  how  to  get  the  boys  out  of  the 
woods. 

The  young  reader  likes  to  meet  a  situation 
which  piques  his  curiosity  in  a  new  chapter,  and 
leaves  him  at  the  end  of  the  chapter  feeling  that 
something  has  been  accomplished,  enough  at  any 
rate  to  permit  him  to  close  the  book  and  do  his 
lessons.  Yet  in  the  back  of  his  mind  must  remain 
the  gnawing  desire  about  *'how  it  is  coming  out," 
enough  at  any  rate  to  prevent  his  forgetting  to 
finish  the  book. 

Thus  the  writer  of  the  successful  juvenile  book 
uses  constantly  the  technique  of  the  short  story. 
Through  it  he  learns  to  make  cross  sections  of 
life,  sharp  and  clear,  and  to  present  them  without 
the  verbosity  which  characterizes  so  many  books. 
He  sees  separate  situations  in  their  entirety  and 
calls  them  chapters.  He  is  aware  of  their  value 
to  each  other  and  to  the  general  effect  of  his  book. 
He  sees  where  to  emphasize,  where  to  withdraw, 
how  to  strengthen  his  product.  His  understanding 
of  the  one  form  is  fundamental  to  his  success  with 
the  other,  and  to  the  flexibility  of  his  general 
craft. 

The  child's  own  choice  of  hoohs 

Since  every  writer  wants  his  work  to  be  read, 
the  question  is  frequently  asked,  ''Is  there  any 
way  of  telling  what  kind  of  stories  children  at 
different  ages  like  best?"  Immediately  we  real- 
ize that  the  child's  choice  of  a  book  is  limited  by 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN     1 1 

at  least  two  factors.  First,  the  actual  number 
of  books  within  his  reach  may  be  bounded  by  the 
shelves  of  an  under-stocked,  poor  library;  second, 
his  parents  may  choose  all  of  his  books  for  him. 
Yet  even  within  these  limitations,  the  child  will 
exercise  his  own  choice.  Quite  possibly  many 
books  which  he  might  care  for  are  forever  shut 
away  from  him;  but  among  those  which  are  pre- 
sented to  him  by  the  library  or  by  his  relatives, 
he  will  soon  indicate  the  ones  which  really  belong 
to  him  by  choice.  Flabby  covers,  frayed  edges, 
and  freedom  from  dust  are  their  earmarks.  His 
choice  may  be  reduced  to  the  minimum,  but  that 
minimum  is  important  to  him  and  to  the  inquiring 
writer. 

Its  importance  to  the  child  him.self  is  something 
which  he  finds  difficult  to  explain  and  adults  find 
difficult  to  understand.  When  we  finish  reading 
a  book  we  sometimes  put  it  on  the  shelf  with  the 
mental  reservation  that  we  will  read  it  again 
later.  But  we  rarely  do!  The  child  makes  his 
book  no  such  promises.  He  does  return  to  it  times 
unnumbered,  rereading  it  witli  all  of  his  original 
appreciation  mellowed  into  ripe  critical  measur- 
ing of  details  such  as  is  rarely  reached  by  the 
adult.  He  ponders  about  his  story  after  he  has 
read  it,  applies  the  theme  to  himself,  compares 
himself  with  the  hero,  remodels  himself  to  fit  the 
standards  of  the  hero,  and  identifies  himself  with 
the  hero.  Obviously  it  becomes  essential  to  know 
all  the  details  procurable  about  this  hero-self. 


12  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

WTio  of  us  anticipates  the  uninterrupted  hour 
which  will  permit  a  third  perusal  of  a  book?  Is 
any  book  by  any  author  as  important  to  us  now 
as  our  favorite  book  was  to  us  in  childhood?  To 
these  earliest  years  of  childhood,  we  know,  be- 
longs permanence  of  impressions.  If  the  book, 
then,  is  important  not  only  to  the  child's  conscious 
satisfaction,  but  to  the  unconscious  life  which  is 
forming  permanent  patterns  for  him,  we  realize 
to  a  degree  the  significance  of  his  choice-  of  his 
book. 

The  child's  own  analysis  of  why  he  likes  or  dis- 
likes a  book  is  so  imperfect  as  to  be  almost  use- 
less to  the  inquiring  adult ;  not  a  surprising  state 
of  affairs  to  anyone  who  has  tried  to  get  a  rea- 
sonable criticism  from  people  much  older  in  years 
and  experience.  Even  the  twelve-year-old  girl 
will  only  laugh  as  at  some  delicious  joke  with 
her  younger  self  if  you  ask  her  why  in  the  world 
she  liked  the  Araminta  and  Arabella  stories  when 
she  was  five.  Our  principal  testimony  must  be 
drawn  from  ourselves,  and  some  of  us  are  too 
hopelessly  grown  away  from  our  child-selves  to 
be  of  any  service.  If,  however,  you  can  remember 
your  favorite  child  book,  if  you  are  fortunate 
enough  to  be  able  to  get  a  copy  of  it,  and  if  you 
can  reread  it  with  a  spirit  sensitive  to  the  old 
impressions,  you  may  be  able  to  judge  something 
of  the  reason  for  its  fascination.  Then  ask  your 
friends  about  the  books  they  liked,  watch  them 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN     13 

take  the  plunge  into  the  long  quiet  depths;  note 
too  the  rejuvenation  as  they  emerge! 

With  the  help  of  records  of  careful  analysis 
from  students  of  juvenile  literature  and  with  the 
illumination  of  our  modern  psychology  on  the 
developing  instincts  and  mental  activity  of  chil- 
dren, a  partial  key  to  the  child's  tastes  seems  to 
be  provided  us. 

Adults  are  usually  egoists  enough  to  be  tre- 
mendously interested  in  themselves  as  they  were, 
or  think  they  were  in  childhood.  Usually  the 
image  which  they  look  back  upon  is  so  modified 
by  the  kind  of  child  which  maturity  has  led  them 
to  believe  desirable  that  neither  their  relatives 
nor  their  contemporaries  would  recognize  the 
product.  A  man's  wife  tells  about  what  a  fire- 
eater  her  husband  was  when  a  child.  We,  who 
grew  up  with  him,  always  knew  him  as  "Mamma's 
apron  string."  The  innate  conviction  of  unusu- 
alness  which  lies  within  each  human  breast  in 
regard  to  himself  while  young,  leads  him  always 
to  respond  with  interest  to  any  interrogation 
about  the  books  he  liked  to  read.  Even  the  dullest 
of  conversationalists  will  be  good  for  a  mono- 
logue about  his  early  likes  and  dislikes.  Wit- 
ness how  a  letter  to  the  New  York  Tribune  about 
juvenile  books  brought  forth  columns  of  replies 
filled  with  details  about  tlie  tastes  of  readers. 
It  cannot  but  be  suspected  sometimes  that  the 
adult  slightly  over-estimates  the  infallibility  of 
his  early  selection.    For  our  own  part,  we  were 


14  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

satisfied  with  anything  from  Chatterboxes  to  old 
Godey's  magazines  in  the  attic,  and  we  never 
shall  know  whether  we  could  have  joined  the  elite 
who  claimed  Alice  in  Wonderland  as  their  own  at 
the  age  of  six,  because  we  never  happened  upon 
her  until  we  were  grown  up.  Nor,  for  the  same 
reason,  do  we  know  whether  we  should  have  fallen 
for  "the  Elsie  books."  As  for  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress, it  belonged  to  the  college  required  reading 
shelf.  The  average  adult,  however,  has  immu- 
table opinions  about  his  own  juvenile  literature. 
The  only  exception  we  have  known  is  a  woman, 
now  well  known  for  wide  and  interesting  activ- 
ities, who  after  hstening  to  an  enthusiastic  dis- 
cussion of  a  group  of  friends  remarked  wistfully, 
*'How  extraordinary  to  be  able  to  remember  so 
well  the  books  you  liked!  We  were  so  busy  on 
the  ranch  that  I  never  seem  to  have  read  any." 
It  is  nevertheless  a  question  with  illuminating 
possibilities  to  put  to  your  friends  and  to  your- 
self :  AVhat  books  did  you  like  best  when  you  were 
a  child?     Then,  why  did  you  like  them! 

To  check  up  observation  of  adults,  one  should 
have  at  hand  as  many  children  of  different  ages 
as  possible.  Not  only  will  they  give  us  the  mod- 
ern reaction  to  many  of  the  books  of  our  genera- 
tion, but  they  will  contribute  new  tendencies  of 
choice  and  new  authors  who  satisfy  it. 

In  the  first  place  we  might  as  well  face  the  fact 
that  the  ordinary  child  does  not  care  a  rap  for 
good  writing.     Certain  phrases  hold  him  some- 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN    15 

times,  like  Kipling's  inimitable  combinations  of 
words,  but  usually  he  lacks  discrimination  almost 
entirely.  Yet — and  this  is  why  we  must  take 
quality  into  consideration — good  writing  has  an 
effect  on  the  child,  and  slowly  he  evolves  an  un- 
conscious standard  by  which  he  recognizes  cheap, 
stale,  commonplace  writing,  no  matter  how  thrill- 
ing the  plot.  The  recognition  may  be  tardy,  so 
tardy  that  it  does  not  become  a  part  of  his  equip- 
ment until  he  is  grown,  but  it  brings  with  it  the 
same  kind  of  assurance  that  stamps  the  speech  of 
the  child  who  has  always  heard  good  English. 
With  equal  inevitability  an  early  diet  of  trash 
ruins  liis  intellectual  digestion  for  good  food  later 
on. 

"Easy  reading  but  bunk,"  a  boy  characterized 
a  popular  series  for  me.  A  criticism  as  exact  as 
it  was  terse,  and  a  matter  of  congratulation  to 
him  that  at  thirteen  he  had  discrimination  enough 
to  make  it. 

Another  characteristic  of  the  child-reader,  and 
this  applies  to  the  well-grown  youngster  too,  is 
that  he  must  have  illustrations.  Nor  is  this  desire 
indicative  of  lack  of  intelligence.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  a  grasp  for  something  to  develop  his 
experience.  Consider  how  little  he  has  seen  on 
which  his  imagination  can  build.  We,  as  adults, 
are  critical  of  illustrations  and  often  wish  they 
might  be  omitted,  because  we  have  stored  up 
images  of  our  own  which  we  consider  superior 


16  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

to  those  of  the  artist.  The  child  must  take  his 
ready-made  for  a  while. 

Dealers  in  books  for  children  testify  that  not 
only  do  children  select  books  by  appraising  their 
interest  through  the  illustrations,  but  that  adults, 
when  unacquainted  with  the  book  in  question  for 
the  child,  will  run  through  the  illustrations,  decide 
whether  the  story  ''looks  interesting,"  and  thus 
determine  the  purchase.  On  the  shoulders,  there- 
fore, of  the  illustrators,  lies  some  of  the  burden 
of  responsibility  for  the  acquisition  of  a  book. 
But  for  the  future  battered  and  beloved  ragged- 
ness  we  must  depend  upon  the  author. 

The  point  arises,  why  does  a  boy  prefer  the 
Dick  Deadeye  type  of  story  to  Little  Lord  Faun- 
tleroyf  Not  that  children  do  not  like  the  young 
lord.  The  sense  of  inferiority  put  over  on  them 
by  their  ever-guiding  elders  rejoices  in  the  skill 
with  which  Fauntleroy  leads  his  grandfather 
around  by  the  nose.  But  for  real  sport,  the  half- 
grown  boy  keeps  a  detective  or  an  adventure 
story  where  he  can  read  it  and  his  mother  cannot. 

The  key  to  this  taste,  and  to  much  of  the  choice 
of  both  boys  and  girls,  lies  again  in  the  conviction 
of  the  young  that  they  are  under  and  behind  their 
elders,  that  sense  of  inferiority  which,  if  it  clings 
to  the  adult,  makes  him  unhappy  and  inhibits  his 
activities.  The  escape  for  the  child  is  by  reading 
stories  wherein  victory  flavors  life.  He  identifies 
himself  with  the  victor,  whether  a  person,  a 
group,  an  army,  a  tribe,  or  a  gang,  and  with 


<( 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN     17 

this  identification  he  attains  vicarious  success, 
through  their  glory.  The  child  is  compensating 
for  something  which  a  conventional  life  does  not 
supply  him.  That  the  girls  lean  toward  love 
stories  is  probably  because  their  idea  of  victory 
is  the  capture  of  a  husband.  Possibly  with  new 
ideals  of  society,  new  concepts  of  victory  will  dis- 
turb their  pattern. 

If  the  athletic  adventurous  girl  revolts  against 
Patty  books"  and  "Isabel  books"  and  *' Peggy 
books"  wherein  the  heroine  passes  through  long 
series  of  girlish  adventures  and  ends  in  the  arms 
of  a  clean-cut  college-bred  man,  she  is  thrown 
back  on  boys'  stories.  Even  Merrylips  in  order 
to  have  real  adventures  had  to  be  located  in  the 
Roundliead  days  and  to  be  disguised  as  a  boy; 
whereby,  of  course,  she  had  boys'  adventures. 

The  child  always  has  the  forw^ard  look.  He 
likes  to  see  himself  older,  more  interesting,  more 
beautiful,  more  successful.  The  trouble  with  us 
is  that  we  forget  how  far  forward  children  look. 
High  school  girls  have  already  outgrown  school 
stories ;  they  may  read  sufficiently  thrilling  college 
stories,  but  they  usually  prefer  the  book  that  deals 
with  girls  old  enough  to  be  free  from  the  shackles 
of  education.  Practically  the  only  interests  of 
such  young  persons  supplied  by  books  are  those 
of  the  love  story.  Thus  the  high-school  girl 
through  her  reading  steps  over  into  a  day-dream- 
ing life  peopled  by  herself  and  the  surrounding 
lovers. 


18  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

We  say  that  children  pass  through  certain 
phases.  So  they  do,  a  phase  usually  indicating 
that  certain  developing  instincts  are  prominent 
now  in  their  growth  and  are  dominating  the  in- 
terests of  the  child.  As  well  try  to  ignore  gravity 
as  those  instincts.  As  well  try  to  repress  a 
bubbling  spring  as  to  repress  them.  Right  here 
comes  an  opportunity  for  vicarious  experience 
through  books  which,  if  wisely  selected,  w^ill  help 
the  youngster  to  tide  over  phases  difficult  to  him 
and  exasperating  to  his  elders.  If  he  can  work 
off  by  proxy  some  of  the  demands  of  the  harass- 
ing instincts  which  are  temporarily  stirring  up 
and  comphcating  life  for  him,  he  and  his  elders 
have  cause  for  gratitude. 

To  illustrate  a  few  of  the  instincts  from  the 
development  of  which  the  youngster  is  dominated 
by  certain  interests  and  activities:  Every  family 
passes  through  a  period  of  trial  when  the  boys 
and  often  the  girls  feel  their  oats  and  prance 
about  neighing,  heels  up,  ready  for  a  fight.  The 
illustration  used  by  E.  L.  Thorndike  to  show  the 
effect  of  the  instinct  of  pugnacity  is  the  boys* 
classic,  Tom  Sawyer: 

''You're  a  fighting  liar  and  dasn't  take  it  up." 
"Aw,  take  a  walk!" 


<  <  < 


Say,  if  you  give  me  much  more  of  your  sass  I'll  take 
and  bounce  a  rock  off  your  head." 
"Oh,  of  course  you  will." 
"Well,  I  will." 
"WeU,  why  don't  you  do  it  then?    What  do  you  keep 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN     19 

saying  you  will  for?  Why  don't  you  do  it?  It's  be- 
cause you're  afraid." 

"I  ain't  afraid." 

"You  are." 

"I  ain't." 

"You  are." 

Another  pause  and  more  eyeing  and  sidling  around 
each  other.     Presently  they  were  shoulder  to  shoulder. 

Tom  said: 

"Get  away  from  here." 

"Go  away  yourself." 

"I  won't." 

"I  won't  either." 

So  they  .stood,  each  with  a  foot  placed  at  an  angle  as 
a  brace  and  both  shoving  with  might  and  main,  and 
glowering  at  each  other  with  hate.  But  neither  could 
get  an  advantage.  After  struggling  till  both  were  hot 
and  flushed,  each  relaxed  his  strain  with  watchful 
caution,  and  Tom  said : 

"You're  a  coward  and  a  pup.  I'll  tell  my  big  brother 
on  you,  and  he  can  thrash  you  with  his  little  finger,  and 
I'll  make  him  do  it,  too." 

"What  do  I  care  for  your  big  brother?  I've  got  a 
brother  that's  bigger  than  he  is — and  what's  more, 
he  can  throw  him  over  the  fence,  too."  (Both  brothers 
were  imaginary.) 

"That's  a  lie." 

"Your  saying  so  don't  make  it  so." 

Tom  drew  a  line  in  the  dust  with  his  big  toe  and  said : 

"I  dare  you  to  step  over  that,  and  I'll  lick  you  till 
you  can't  stand  up.  Anybody  that'll  take  a  dare  will 
steal  sheep." 

The  new  boy  stepped  over  promptly  and  said : 

"Now  you  said  you'd  do  it,  let's  see  you  do  it." 

"Don't  you  crowd  me,  now;  you  better  look  out." 

"Well,  you  said  you'd  do  it — why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"By  jingo!  for  two  cents  I  would," 


20  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  new  boy  took  two  broad  coppers  out  of  his  pocket 
and  held  them  out  with  derision.  Tom  struck  them  to 
the  ground.  In  an  instant  both  boys  were  rolling  and 
tumbling  in  the  dirt,  gripped  together  like  cats ;  and  for 
the  space  of  a  minute  they  tugged  and  tore  at  each 
other's  hair  and  clothes,  punched  and  scratched  each 
other's  noses,  and  covered  themselves  with  dust  and 
glory.  Presently  the  confusion  took  form  and  through 
the  fog  of  battle  Tom  appeared,  seated  astride  the  new 
boy,  and  pounding  him  with  his  fists. 

"Holler  'nuff!"  said  he. 

The  boy  only  struggled  to  free  himself.  He  was  cry- 
ing, mainly  from  rage. 

"Holler   'nuff!" — and  the  pounding  went  on. 

At  last  the  stranger  got  out  a  smothered  "  'nuff!" 
and  Tom  let  him  up  and  said: 

"Now  that'll  learn  you.  Better  look  out  who  you're 
fooling  with  next  time." 

A  girl  who  was  going  through  the  pugnacious 
stage  became  enamoured  of  The  Last  of  the  Mo- 
hicans. Each  night  she  recited  to  a  sleepy  sister 
the  hair-raising  adventures  of  the  latest  chapter, 
rousing  herself  to  such  a  state  of  excitement  that 
she  could  not  sleep  for  hours.  In  her  games  she 
scalped  nearly  all  of  the  neighbors  and  her 
parents  despaired  of  her  development  into  a 
peaceful  citizen  of  society.  At  present  the  same 
young  warrior  has  built  herself  a  bungalow  in  the 
country,  reads  no  magazine  but  The  House  Beau- 
tiful, and  gives  serious  attention  to  no  books  but 
furniture  and  mail-order  catalogues.  The  Last 
of  the  Mohicans  seems  successfully  to  have  de- 
livered her  of  her  lighting  demon. 


QUESTION  OF  WRITING  FOR  CHILDREN     21 

Another  instinct  which  usually  seizes  upon  the 
growing  child  and  makes  its  presence  felt  in  a 
passing  phase  is  the  hunting  instinct.  ''The  pres- 
ence of  this  tendency  in  man's  life,"  says  Thorn- 
dike,  "under  the  conditions  of  civilized  life  gets 
him  little  food  and  much  trouble.  There  being 
no  wild  animals  to  pursue,  catch  and  torment  into 
submission  or  death,  household  pets,  young  and 
timid  children,  or  even  aunts,  governesses  or 
nursemaids,  if  sufficiently  yielding,  provoke  the 
response  from  the  young."  Books  of  game  and 
capture,  tales  of  the  woods  and  of  boy  trapper 
heroes,  become  of  deep  interest  for  a  while. 

So  closely  allied  to  the  hunting  instinct  that 
it  usually  appears  along  with  it,  is  the  instinct 
for  teasing,  tormenting,  bullying.  It  accounts 
frequently  for  a  boy's  interest  in  hazing  stories, 
slave-driving  and  persecution,  and  unless  he  is 
of  brutal  nature,  it  will  usually  disappear  along 
that  path. 

Pleasurable  thrills  through  play  on  the  instinct 
of  fear  are  secured  from  perils  between  covers. 
Strange  reptiles,  ferocious  animals,  dark  caverns, 
even  ghosts,  serve  to  titillate  emotion  up  to  the 
desired  point.  Beyond  that  it  sometimes  plunges 
unexpectedly  into  torture,  and  the  child  becomes 
haunted  by  the  source  of  his  earlier  pleasure 
stimulus. 

Constructiveness,  sometimes  reinforced  by  the 
desire  for  self-expression,  gains  an  audience  es- 
pecially  among   boys   for   books   which   give   in 


22  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

meticulous  detail  the  description  and  directions 
of  the  hero's  constructive  activity.  An  architect 
told  me  that  his  boyhood's  delight  was  a  series 
of  books  following  the  detailed  operations  of  boy 
carpenters,  boy  engineers,  boy  inventors.  Robin- 
son Crusoe  and  Siviss  Family  Robinson  have  been 
the  inspiration  of  many  a  young  castaway's 
imaginary  struggles  against  nature ;  they  furnish 
the  favorite  theme  of  much  of  the  modern  adven- 
ture stuff. 

This,  then,  is  the  general  situation  for  juvenile 
writing  with  respect  to  the  authors  and  the  read- 
ers. The  stories  themselves,  wiiether  long  or 
short,  divide  into  certain  large  groups :  adventurCj 
stories;  fairy  stories;  nature  and  animal  stories; 
school,  college,  and  home  stories.  Naturally  these 
varieties  are  not  hard  and  fast,  but  slip  over  into 
each  other  so  that  any  story  may  be  two  or  three 
kinds  at  once.  A  school  story  may  be  full  of  ad- 
venture and  include  an  animal  complication  as 
well.  But  taken  as  general  tj^es,  these  groups 
help  to  show  us  the  possibilities  of  plot  combina- 
tion which  interest  children.  We  shall  therefore 
begin  our  study  of  the  structure  of  the  juvenile 
story  by  analyzing  some  of  the  characteristics 
common  to  each  of  these  groups. 


CHAPTER  II 

Sources  of  Material. 

The  sources  and  resources  of  material  for 
juvenile  writing  have  not  begun  to  be  sounded  by 
writers.  The  limitations  of  subjects  suitable  for 
children's  stories  are  taken  for  granted  without 
enough  consultation  of  the  children.  Children 
are  classified  too  much  as  children  with  no  sub- 
headings of  their  different  varieties.  They  are, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  much  less  homogeneous  than 
adults.  Adults  reach  a  certain  mental  age,  the 
majority  of  them  clustering  about  a  point  which 
is  equivalent  in  intelhgence  to  a  sixteen-year-old 
child.  Since  large  groups  of  them  are  employed 
in  the  same  kind  of  work — business  or  housekeep- 
ing or  what  not — and  live  through  much  the  same 
kind  of  experiences,  the  pattern  of  the  sort  of 
book  which  they  will  like  to  read  is  not  difficult  to 
design.  Yet  a  great  variety  of  books  is  written 
for  adults  because  of  the  recognized  variety  of 
*' tastes."  Tastes  usually  are  somewhat  influ- 
enced by  the  amount  of  intelligence.  Above  and 
below  the  median  of  the  great  normal  group  are 
great  groups  of  more  and  less  intelligent  people 
making  specialized  demands  on  writers.    Writers 

23 


24  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

are  always  ready  to  recognize  and  respond  to 
these  demands  when  adults  make  them.  And 
pubhshers,  when  they  foresee  a  fair  sale,  wiU  en- 
courage the  writer.  A  modern  book  store  does 
not  have  a  department  of  books  for  adults  and 
one  of  books  for  children.  It  has  its  spaces  di- 
vided into  every  variety  of  books  under  the  sun 
for  adults  with  a  corner,  a  counter,  or  a  small 
room  devoted  to  children's  books.  Boys'  books 
and  girls'  books  face  each  other  on  opposite 
shelves  after  the  dancing  school  arrangement. 
AVhy  not  separate  the  shelves  for  men's  books  and 
women's  books?  One  would  say  that  the  inter- 
ests of  the  boy  and  the  girl  have  much  more  in 
common  than  those  of  the  man  and  the  woman, 
a  fact  which  perhaps  accounts  for  the  patronage 
of  boys'  shelves  by  girls.  For  obvious  reasons 
the  boys,  as  well  as  many  of  the  girls,  let  the 
girls'  shelves  alone. 

Another  classification  besides  sex  of  juvenile 
stories  is  based  on  age;  stories  for  girls  from 
eight  to  ten,  for  boys  from  twelve  to  fourteen, 
etc.  The  chronological  age  counts  for  little  with 
the  child.  His  "taste"  is  as  varied  and  as  much 
a  matter  of  intelligence  and  environment  as  that 
of  the  adult.  There  seems  little  more  reason  for 
calling  a  book  by  the  general  term  a  juvenile  than 
for  terming  another  an  adult 

Writers  for  children  need  really  be  limited  to 
no  greater  degree  than  writers  for  adults.  Young 
people  are  ready  to  be  interested  in  anything. 


SOURCES  OF  MATERIAL  25 

They  have  not  reached  the  age  of  intolerance  of 
ideas  or  action ;  their  curiosity  has  not  been  sated 
in  any  direction;  they  are  likely  to  be  bored  by 
only  one  thing,  the  "typical  juvenile."  Any  kind 
of  material,  which  interests  the  author  and  which 
arises  from  his  real  knowledge  and  experience,  is 
fairly  sure  of  an  audience.  Suppose  it  has  not 
been  used  before  as  juvenile  material?  So  much 
the  better.  The  old  fields  have  been  cultivated 
until  they  are  barren.  We  need  writers  who  will 
plant  in  fresh  soil.  Our  yearly  yield  of  books  is 
too  much  like  run-out  crops  now. 

Writers  provide  enormous  quantities  of  stories 
for  children  who  cannot  read  yet  or  who  have 
just  begun  to  read.  Even  at  this  stage  of  devel- 
opment children  have  variety  in  tastes  in  reading. 
In  general,  this  variety  receives  consideration; 
the  books  are  of  every  quality,  and  they  cover 
considerable  ground.  Between  the  time  of  baby 
books  and  adult  books,  children  reach  the  peak  of 
their  accumulation  of  varied  interests.  Before 
they  are  adolescent  they  have  often  exliausted  the 
resources  of  juvenile  books  pronounced  suitable 
for  their  age.  Their  interests  have  not  yet  begun 
to  narrow  down  but  they  can  find  nothing  on 
which  to  feed  them.  They  turn  to  the  kind  of 
adult  books  which  are  written  in  the  fairly  simple 
prose  suitable  for  the  average  adult  mind,  and 
discover  there  the  romantic  theme.  The  single 
substitute  for  the  numbers  of  engrossing  youthful 
interests,  it  takes  on  an  emphasis  and  importance 


26  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

which  is  not  balanced  by  experience.  The  child 
is  plunged  into  it  too  soon,  deprived  too  early  of 
childhood.  Little  by  little  the  vitahty  of  other 
interests  yields  to  undernourishment,  and  they 
disappear  or  become  reduced  to  vestigial  remains. 

A  well-meaning  friend  who  had  been  recom- 
mending Dr.  Tarn  O'Shanter  to  two  girls,  twelve 
and  thirteen  years  old,  asked  them  what  they  were 
reading  now.  *'AVe  have  just  finished  The  Sheik/ ^ 
they  rephed,  "and  we  were  much  interested  to 
compare  it  to  One/^  It  seems  a  little  doubtful 
if  the  adventures  of  the  lady  in  The  Sheik  would 
serve  to  give  a  twelve-year  old  much  of  a  grasp 
on  the  reality  of  life.  And  the  older  person 
wonders  just  what  sort  of  alchemy  goes  on  in  this 
limited  young  mind  to  turn  the  problems  of  One 
into  a  twelve-year  old  treasure.  At  any  rate,  we 
cannot  wonder  at  the  distorted  Idnd  of  sophisti- 
cation which  we  complain  characterizes  our  young 
girls.  Nor  can  we  blame  them  for  choosing  our 
adult  books  unless  we  provide  them  with  their 
own  kind. 

One  should  never  write  down  to  young  people. 
From  the  four-year-old  to  the  fourteen-year-old, 
they  all  resent  it.  This  resentment  lies  behind 
and  partly  accounts  for  the  gesture  of  disdain 
which  expresses  itself  in  the  older  child's  adop- 
tion of  adult  books.  The  writer  needs  to  bear  in 
mind  that  he  is  dealing  here  with  a  mind  which  is 
close  to  the  maturity  of  the  average  grown  per- 
son, with  an  experience  which  is  undeveloped  and 


SOURCES  OF  MATERIAL  27 

with  interests  which  are  as  yet  unlimited  in  their 
scope  and  insatiable  in  their  demands.  The 
potentialities  of  material  for  such  an  audience 
ought  to  stimulate  any  author. 

It  is  apparent  that  the  person  who  wishes  to 
write  successfully  for  children  has  to  secure  for 
himself  material  which  has  freshness,  reality,  and 
significance.  Such  material  can  come  only  from 
the  children  themselves.  Consequently  some 
people  are  better  equipped  and  have  more  re- 
sources to  draw  from  than  others.  This  by  no 
means  implies  that  the  person  who  is  surrounded 
by  the  most  children  is  most  likely  to  divine  their 
possibilities  and  to  make  use  of  them.  Any 
mother  of  six  or  teacher  of  forty  mil  not  even 
trouble  to  refute  such  an  idea.  The  effect  of  the 
too  abundant  supply  is  obvious.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  man  or  woman  segregated  by  business 
and  living  conditions  to  an  environment  which 
never  admits  of  a  child  will,  even  with  the  equip- 
ment of  liking  for  children,  find  reality  hard  to 
capture. 

One  source  of  material  is  open  to  everyone,  his 
own  childhood.  As  an  unmodified  source,  it  has 
its  dangers.  Most  of  us  need  a  little  later  experi- 
ence with  other  children  to  interpret  soundly  our 
young  selves.  We  like  to  think  that  we  were  the 
exception.  From  Charles  Lamb  on,  childhood 
furnishes  its  elders  with  recollections  rather  more 
hallowed  and  sentimental  than  they  are  exact. 
We  see  ourselves  through  the  glasses  of  maturity 


28  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

and  read  into  ourselves  the  things  of  maturity 
which  never  were  at  the  age  of  five.  On  the  other 
hand,  much  which  was  really  important  then,  like 
dirt  and  noise,  we  have  erased  from  our  grown-up 
minds.  Even  if  we  cannot  quite  rid  ourselves  of 
the  phantasy  of  our  poetic  and  sensitive  child- 
hood, it  will  be  valuable  for  us  as  writers  to  dis- 
cover what  children  are  really  like.  We  may  still 
cherish  our  conviction  that  we  were  the  exception 
to  the  rule,  the  different  child;  but,  for  the  good 
of  our  fiction,  we  ought  to  find  out  that  nowa- 
dsijs  children  aren't  like  that! 

This  means  that,  even  with  detailed  and  volu- 
minous recollections  of  our  own  childhood  at 
hand,  a  checking  up  process  of  immediate  obser- 
vation is  necessary.  The  sources  of  such  obser- 
vation are  plentiful  enough  to  bring  help  even  to 
the  most  segregated  of  persons.  Children  are 
pretty  nearly  everywhere.  In  the  city  the  parks 
are  full  of  them  accompanied  by  nurses  who  are 
only  too  pleased  to  have  the  attention  of  their 
charges  engaged  by  someone  else.  In  the  country 
children  are  about  as  difficult  to  observe  as  dais- 
ies. Schools  are  everywhere.  A  visitor  may  drop 
in  and  from  a  seat  in  the  corner  refresh  his 
memory  to  a  considerable  extent  and  maybe  get 
some  new  points.  How  many  of  us  remember  just 
how  school  looked,  and  felt,  and  smelledf  Or 
what  a  queer  thing  it  really  was  to  crowd  our  legs 
under  a  little  desk  all  day  and  to  give  evidence 
of  our  entire  accord  with  proceedings  by  clasping 


SOURCES  OF   MATERIAL  29 

our  hands  on  the  edge  if  it.  How  many  of  us 
remember  how  closely  the  other  cliildren  were 
crowded  to  us,  physically  or  mentally,  or  just 
how  we  felt  about  the  monarchical  system  repre- 
sented by  teacher?  Curious  recollections  will 
float  to  the  surface  after  a  school  visit,  and  the 
chances  are  that  they  will  be,  at  their  first  ap- 
pearance anyway,  undecorated  by  imagination. 
Schools  and  colleges  are  always  open  to  visitors. 
A  call  is  likely  to  be  worth  something. 

Children  at  play  are  as  nearly  free  from  re- 
pressions as  you  will  be  likely  to  find  them.  From 
the  baby  to  the  college  ball  player,  play  acts  as 
a  divining  rod,  and  characteristics  spring  out  at 
its  touch.  Fortunately  children  will  play  any- 
where and  everywhere  under  all  circumstances. 
Even  the  business  person  who  lives  in  a  single 
room  in  a  spinster  boarding  house  can  see  chil- 
dren at  play  on  Sunday  morning  in  the  park. 

The  way  we  usually  spoil  our  observations  of 
children  is,  of  course,  to  interpret  them  through 
our  adult  point  of  view.  Then  they  are  no  longer 
of  any  use  in  juvenile  fiction.  For  instance,  a 
child  of  eight  the  other  day  came  home  from 
school,  looked  at  the  outside  of  the  apartment 
house  where  she  lived,  decided  she  could  not  stand 
it  another  minute,  borrowed  a  nickel  from  the 
elevator  boy  and  went  off  down  the  subway.  By 
ten  o'clock  at  night  the  whole  police  force  was 
out  after  her.  About  ten-thirty  she  wandered 
into  the  house,  elate  and  unsubdued,  her  pocket 


30  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

full  of  trophies  in  the  way  of  peanuts  and  powder 
puffs.  The  natural  reaction  of  the  adult  is  anger 
(always  greater  because  it  follows  relief)  cul- 
minating in  punishment.  The  writer  can  leave 
such  reactions  to  those  to  whom  by  nature  they 
belong.  He  has  no  parental  responsibilities.  His 
business  is  to  see  how  the  child  herself  felt  about 
her  break  for  freedom.  AVhy  did  she  behave  so? 
How  does  she  feel  about  it  now? 

Any  observation  is  likely  to  be  affected  by  emo- 
tion. The  emotion  may  clarify  it  or  may  cloud  it. 
Suppose  we  like  a  person ;  we  give  him  the  bene- 
fit of  that  kindly  feeling  in  our  interpretation  of 
his  actions;  suppose  we  dislike  a  person;  we 
again  color  our  judgments  by  that  hatred.  Sup- 
pose we  are  wholly  indifferent ;  we  are  not  likely 
to  observe  him  enough  to  make  his  action  a  matter 
of  moment.  The  last  is  the  most  dangerous  state 
for  the  writer  to  find  himself  in.  He  may  like 
one  child  and  he  may  dislike  another,  and  yet 
they  will  both  be  grist  to  his  mill.  But  if  he  has 
only  indifference  behind  his  observation,  the 
image  will  never  get  beyond  its  focus  on  the  ret- 
ina of  his  eye.  The  adult  with  the  discerning 
eye,  the  tolerant  mind  open  to  conviction,  and  the 
feeling  of  friendliness  and  interest  toward  chil- 
dren, is  not  likely  to  lack  for  material.  His  only 
difficulty  will  be  selection  from  abundance. 

More  frequently  than  we  might  like  to  admit, 
our  own  adult  experiences  furnish  excellent  ma- 


SOURCES  OF  MATERIAL  31 

terial  for  juvenile  stories.  Adventures  out  of 
doors,  in  travel,  at  home,  experiences  with  wild 
animals,  or  with  our  ow^n  dogs  or  horses,  human 
relations,  all  kinds  of  sport  or  recreation,  piany 
varieties  of  adult  problems  in  living, — any  of  this 
material  will  usually  adapt  itself  to  such  a  form 
as  will  interest  young  people.  Not  as  the  experi- 
ence of  the  writer,  however,  but  as  the  experience 
of  the  youthful  hero  or  heroine  of  the  story.  This 
source  of  material  is  especially  valuable  to  the 
author.  He  knows  it  as  he  knows  no  other  story 
stuff,  and  he  finds,  the  more  he  uses  it,  the  more 
it  drives  him  into  fresh  activity  to  augment  his 
resources.  The  state  of  experiencing  is  much 
more  healthful  for  the  author  than  the  state  of 
having  experienced. 

History  offers  itself  as  a  source  of  material  for 
juvenile  writing  both  as  fiction  and  as  fact.  Hen- 
drik  von  Loon  has  opened  up  and  cultivated  a 
whole  new  field  in  historical  writing.  Through 
the  uniqueness  and  completeness  of  the  pair  of 
tools  with  which  he  w^orks  his  field,  he  remains  in 
sole  possession  of  it  at  present.  But  though  few 
people  are  gifted  wdth  a  power  to  present  facts 
clearly  and  entertainingly  both  by  words  and  by 
draw^ings,  Mr.  von  Loon's  success  in  reaching  and 
capturing  his  readers  is  bound  to  induce  other 
writers  to  try  his  methods.  The  scope  of  the  work 
is  large  and  its  need  is  great.  It  may  breed  us  a 
generation  of  lovers  of  history  yet. 


32  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  fiction  side  of  history  material  has  hereto- 
fore been  its  only  side  to  interest  most  children. 
History  is  action  and  youth  likes  action.  History 
develops  itself  along  simple  and  large  themes — at 
least  by  the  time  they  become  history,  they  are 
simple  and  large.  Primitive  life  is  very  compre- 
hensible to  the  child.  The  pioneer  life  is  the  kind 
he  would  live  if  he  had  his  choice.  Clear  motives, 
rapid  action,  actual  accomplishment,  emphasis  on 
courage,  daring,  resourcefulness,  all  these  com- 
ponents of  historic  fiction  make  for  a  whole  which 
has  a  strong  appeal  to  the  youthful  mind.  If  the 
main  character  is  a  young  person  like  Merrylips 
in  Beulah  Dix's  story  of  the  Roundliead  days,  the 
problem  becomes  vital.  The  reader  identified 
with  the  characters  lives  through  the  periods  of 
the  past,  and  doubtless  gets  much  more  pleasure 
out  of  it  than  its  real  participants  felt.  At  pres- 
ent a  book  in  the  class  in  Juvenile  AYriting  is 
being  plotted  around  the  adventures  of  a  boy  with 
his  wonderful  white  horse  in  the  days  of  the  Ohio 
pioneers.  Every  boy  likes  a  good  horse  and  a 
plucky  boy.  The  adventures  of  the  pair,  placed 
in  an  environment  w^hich  offers  every  danger  from 
Indians  to  rattlesnakes,  have  the  double  poten- 
tialities of  good  fiction  and  of  a  lasting  picture  of 
early  pioneer  life. 

The  sources  of  material  for  special  kinds  of 
stories  are  dealt  with  in  the  following  cliapters. 
In  general,  the  writer  may  depend  on  his  own 


SOURCES  OF  MATERIAL  33 

childhood,  on  his  observation  of  children,  and  on 
his  own  experiences  adapted  to  children.  His 
limitations  in  choice  of  material  are  slight,  his 
potential  subjects  are  numerous  and  as  yet  largely 
undeveloped. 


CHAPTER  III 

Adventure  Stories 

The  term  adventure  story,  like  a  blanket-clause, 
is  intended  to  cover  a  number  of  different  things. 
Almost  any  good  story,  fairy,  school,  or  animal, 
is  likely  to  contain  an  adventure  of  some  kind. 
Pure  adventure  seems  to  connotate  a  departure 
from  protected  environment  into  a  direct  struggle 
with  the  unknown  and  the  difficult.  The  adven- 
ture story  is  the  earliest,  most  primitive  type  of 
narrative.  The  Old  Testament,  any  group  of 
myths  or  folk  lore  stories,  the  Odyssey,  all  early 
narratives  are  adventurous,  as  a  reflection  of 
early  life  when  so  much  of  the  world  was  un- 
known, and  struggle  with  animals,  human  beings, 
or  forces  of  nature  made  a  large  part  of  existence. 
Robinson  Crusoe  was  perhaps  the  first  successful 
realistic  treatment  of  adventure  for  people 
no  longer  concerned  with  primitive  struggle. 
Though  various  story  elements  entered,  it  was 
predominately  pure  adventure. 

For  such  stories  the  demand  will  never  cease. 
Both  boys  and  girls  want  them.  The  girls,  so  far, 
have  to  take  their  adventures  twice  vicariously, 
first  by  identifying  themselves  with   the   story 

34 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  35 

character,  and  then  by  imagining  themselves  as 
boys.  But  the  modern  girl  is  beginning  to  have 
adventures  of  her  own.  When  she  reaches  the 
stage  of  development  where  boys  will  read  about 
her  adventures,  then  she  may  no  longer  concern 
herself  about  equal  rights.  At  present  many  girls 
use  only  the  part  of  the  library  catalogue  devoted 
to  "Books  For  Boys.'' 

The  writer  of  adventure  stories  has  unlimited 
sources  from  W'hich  to  draw  his  plots.  If  we  con- 
sider for  a  moment  the  events  which  have  given 
us  as  adults  the  most  excitement,  the  most  fun, 
the  most  fertile  basis  for  stories  which  we  like  to 
tell  about  ourselves,  we  shall  see  that  almost  all 
of  those  events  might  conceivably  have  happened 
to  a  youngster.  In  fact,  everything  connected 
with  our  play  life,  sail  boat,  motor  boat,  fishing, 
camping,  etc.,  with  the  accompanying  difficulties 
into  w^hich  they  always  get  us,  might  perfectly 
well  be  put  over  on  to  the  boy  or  the  girl  with 
enhanced  value.  "VVe  as  adults  might  be  expected 
to  know  how  to  deal  with  the  situation,  but  the 
inexperienced  young  person  gives  an  opportunity 
for  highly  increased  interest. 

For  example,  the  writer  was  caught  out  in  a 
storm  in  her  motor  boat,  the  engine  went  dead, 
and  she  with  her  crew  was  cast  ashore  on  an 
island  where  they  had  to  stay  until  the  wind  went 
down.  The  incident  furnished  excitement  enough 
to  the  adult  participants,  but  put  over  on  to 
fourteen-year-old  Betsey  and  ten-year-old  Benjie 


36  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

of  the  story  All  By  Ourselves,  it  made  a  breath- 
taking chapter  for  the  children.  Again,  the  writer 
during  the  summer  sleeps  out  under  the  trees  in 
a  Gloucester  hammock.  Porcupines  climb  the 
trees,  skunks  stroll  down  the  wall,  squirrels  and 
birds  become  almost  too  neighborly,  and  even  the 
deer  come  up  to  make  observations  now  and  then. 
This  material  became  the  basis  for  the  stories 
about  Little  Lucia,  who  breaks  her  leg  and  is 
obliged  to  spend  six  weeks  lying  still  in  the 
Gloucester  hanm.iock.  The  experiences  trans- 
ferred to  the  four-year-old  are  entirely  plausible 
and  become  heightened  inmieasurably  by  the 
youth  of  the  heroine. 

Thus  the  adult  may  not  only  draw  upon  his  past 
experience  for  material  for  juvenile  adventure 
material,  but  he  would  do  well  to  go  out  for  some 
fresh  impressions.  The  demand  for  further 
Little  Lucia  stories,  for  instance,  required  of  the 
author  a  camping  trip.  However,  one  usually 
meets  such  requirements  \y\th.  alacrity. 

If  the  writer  has  not  actually  experienced  the 
adventure  of  his  story,  he  should  know  about  it 
in  all  its  details  before  he  attemjDts  to  tell  it. 
Some  of  these  particulars  he  can  easily  imagine, 
because  he  has  a  background  of  adventuring, 
others  he  gets  by  hear-say  evidence.  The  value 
of  the  testimony  depends  upon  the  veracity  and 
narrative  power  of  the  relator.  The  writer  must 
feel  the  experience  himself  before  he  can  make  it 
vivid  to  his  reader. 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  37 

Often  a  beginner  who  snhmits  a  particularly- 
tepid  story  will  give,  as  a  final  refutation  to  the 
criticism,  the  statement  that  the  story  is  true, 
every  word  of  it.  Usually  that  is  precisely  what 
is  the  matter  with  it.  A  wide  difference  lies  be- 
tween using  material  which  you  know,  and  true 
stories.  A  true  story  may  spread  over  too  much 
time,  may  include  too  many  people,  may  lack 
dramatic  climax,  may  have  every  fault  which  a 
short  story  should  avoid.  But  it  may  contain  the 
nucleus  of  a  story  which  the  skilful  writer  devel- 
ops into  something  that  the  adventurer  himself 
might  never  recognize. 

A  source  of  adventure  stories  which  is  renewed 
for  the  writer  day  by  day  is  the  newspaper.  For 
example,  an  account  appeared  of  the  rescue  of 
two  men  who  had  gone  duck  shooting  in  scooters 
off  Long  Island  and  who  had  been  lost  in  a  bliz- 
zard. For  one  day  the  newspaper  reader  had  the 
suspense  of  the  search,  for  the  next  the  dramatic 
climax  of  the  rescue. 

Another  day  one  reads  about  Pocco  Cosmo  who 
dressed  in  proper  equipment  for  the  West,  and 
started  out;  his  companions  deserted  him,  and 
the  "Lost"  notices  caught  him. 

Under  these  lost  notices  appeared  one  day  the 
following:  "Lost — A  little  old  black  Teddy  bear, 
of  no  intrinsic  value  but  invaluable  because  the 
constant  companion  of  her  little  mother;  probably 
dropped  on  Joralemon  Street,  Brooklyn,  or  in 
Borough    Hall    Station    of    subway,    about    3.30 


16i>  /  Uo 


38  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Wednesday  afternoon.  'Inky'  wore  a  blue  plaid 
dress."  Herein  lie  The  Adventures  of  Inky,  or 
the  story  of  the  little  mother's  search  for  '*Inky," 
or  any  other  plot  which  the  item  suggests  and 
which  would  interest  little  children. 

Another  story  for  little  children  suggests  itself 
in  the  youngster  who  left  his  mother's  side  in  a 
Brooklyn  butcher  shop,  parked  his  kiddy-car  at 
the  subway  entrance,  and  went  on  an  exploration 
trip  in  the  subway.  When  the  police  found  him, 
he  was  doing  City  Hall  Square. 

The  following  headlines  suggest  pure  adven- 
ture to  the  older  boy.  "Wounded  Veteran  Makes 
Rich  Gold  Strike  in  Indian  Shrine."  "Canadian, 
Down  On  His  Luck,  Blasts  Open  Heavy  Pay 
Streak  in  Hills  Near  Ottawa  And  Prospectors 
Stampede  For  New  Klondike." 

The  discerning  reader  acquires  a  sheaf  of  such 
clippings  which  may  prove  their  value  when 
drought  and  famine  set  in. 

In  the  adventure  story  the  emphasis  is  on  ac- 
tion. Yet  since  this  action  is  determined  by  the 
kind  of  character  which  the  hero  possesses,  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  characterization  is  essential  to 
arrive  at  reality  of  action.  Here  the  beginner  is 
likely  to  waver.  Character  must  be  expressed  by 
action.  Action  is  determined  by  character.  The 
old  problem  of  the  egg  and  the  hen !  Applied  to 
writing  the  solution  is  not  difficult.  Tlio  writer 
must  know  his  hero  thoroughly  before  he  attempts 
to  give  him  to  the  reader.    But  the  author  need 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  39 

not  tell  all  he  knows.  Behind  the  action  which 
he  plans  for  the  hero,  lies  knowledge  of  why  the 
hero  does  it.  If  that  understanding  is  clear 
enough  in  the  writer's  mind,  it  cannot  escape  the 
written  word.  The  boy  dominates  his  adventures ; 
the  reader  knows  his  hero  through  the  active 
characterization  of  the  author. 

Just  as  good  characterization  is  essential  as  a 
motivation  of  realistic  action,  so  a  vivid  setting 
localizes  the  action,  differentiates  it,  gives  it  the 
individuality  which  places  the  story  apart  from 
other  stories  of  adventure.  But  here  as  in  the 
characterization,  no  space  can  be  afforded  for 
pure  description.  The  reader  wants  to  get  on 
with  the  action  and  he  will  only  hurdle  descriptive 
paragraphs.  The  setting,  if  it  is  an  interesting 
one,  is  bound  to  be  felt  by  the  reader  through  the 
hero's  reaction  to  it.  The  hero  does  not  have 
to  sit  down  and  admire  the  hills  in  order  to  make 
us  see  them;  he  has  only  to  climb  them.  We  do 
not  need  to  be  told  that  the  desert  sands  are  hot 
if  we  know  their  effect  on  the  hero's  feet  as  he 
trudges  through  them.  In  the  midst  of  a  ship- 
wreck we  do  not  wish  to  be  held  up  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  stormy  waves;  we  realize  them  suffi- 
ciently if  we  see  them  through  the  terrified  eyes 
of  the  hero  who  is  half -blinded  and  suffocated  as 
he  tries  to  steer  through  thom. 

Here,  as  in  characterization,  the  setting  needs 
to  be  clear  in  every  detail  in  the  mind  of  the 
author.     High  lights  can  be  selected  only  when 


40  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

they  stand  out  in  relief.  The  effect  of  mnltiplicity 
of  detail  upon  the  brain  of  the  writer  should  be 
not  to  swamp  it  but  to  give  it  a  basis  of  choice. 

An  incident  alone,  if  it  has  sufficient  content  and 
interest,  may  serve  as  a  short  adventure  story. 
A  boy  runs  into  some  immediate  danger,  l)y  his 
sagacity  or  wit  conceives  a  way  out  of  it,  and 
proceeds  to  deliver  himself  from  it.  Such  a  com- 
bination of  circumstances,  without  any  complica- 
tion or  special  theme,  may  still  serve  to  hold  the 
reader  by  its  rapidity  of  action,  its  demand  on 
certain  admirable  qualities,  like  courage  or  self- 
reliance,  or  by  its  originality. 

To  the  great  group  of  boys  who  are  destined 
by  mediocre  intelligence  or  less  to  find  life  a 
monotonous  routine  of  incomprehensible  lessons 
or  of  a  dull  job,  the  outlet  of  natural  boy-adven- 
turousness  has  largely  been  in  the  past  through 
the  cheap  so-called  dime  novel.  The  setting  of 
these  old  adventure  stories  has  been  in  the  Wild 
West  where  the  boy  has  come  in  contact  with  high- 
way robbers,  kidnappers,  Indians,  gold  miners, 
etc.  The  stories  always  dealt  with  unreality,  but 
reality  itself  had  nothing  to  offer  in  the  way  of 
interest  to  these  boy  readers.  Whether  the  vica- 
rious satisfaction  which  they  gained  compensated 
for  the  loss  of  any  possible  chance  of  recognition 
of  reality  is  the  same  question  which  we  meet 
today. 

The  modern  boy,  however,  does  not  even  have 
to  learn  to  read  well  enough  to  get  his  wild  ad- 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  41 

ventures.  For  a  dime,  he  may  sit  in  a  comfort- 
able seat  and  watch  the  proceedings  go  on  before 
his  eves.  The  moving  picture  does  not  even  de- 
mand the  use  of  his  imagination.  A  pair  of  eyes 
is  all  he  needs.  The  modern  boy  knows  from  the 
newspapers  that  the  wildest  of  the  West  has 
passed.  But  he  soon  reahzes  from  the  movies 
that  the  world  has  not  been  unduly  tamed.  On 
the  contrary,  a  new  device  like  the  aeroplane  more 
than  compensates  for  the  loss  of  the  cowboy.  So 
long  as  enough  reality  of  setting  is  supplied  to 
allow  the  boy  to  identify  himself  with  the  events, 
he,  as  well  as  his  elders,  is  satisfied  with  the  situ- 
ation. 

The  effect  of  the  movies  on  the  quality  of  ad- 
venture story  which  corresponds  to  them  is  evi- 
dent. The  game  is  tied  between  them  on  the  score 
of  speed  and  lack  of  veracity.  These  stories, 
however,  are  probably  less  numerous  than  in  the 
past.  Whether  that  is  an  encouraging  sign  is 
questionable.  The  libraries,  with  their  modern 
oversight  of  juvenile  books,  refuse  to  circulate 
them  and  the  price  now^adays  is  usually  rather 
more  than  that  of  several  movies.  The  demand 
therefore  may  be  lessened  while  the  supply  con- 
tinues via  the  screen. 

The  use  of  unreality  as  a  basis  for  adventure 
fiction  is  not  confined  to  the  rather  hopeless  group 
of  cheap  stories.  A  comparison  of  two  modern 
books  for  boys  illustrates  the  two  schools  of  fie- 


42  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

tion,  one  based  on  the  possible,  the  other  on  the 
highly  imaginative.  In  both  books  the  material 
is  well  handled. 

The  tirst  book,  Tivo  Boys  in  a  Gyrocar,  by  Ken- 
neth Brown,  is  the  story  of  how  a  car,  made  by 
two  boys,  crossed  Russia  and  Europe,  went  round 
the  world,  and  got  in  ahead  of  a  German  and  a 
French  car,  meantime  rescuing  a  Russian  Prin- 
cess. Here  are  the  elements  of  adventure,  me- 
chanics, patriotism,  racing,  brigands,  and  love. 

The  second  story.  Forest  Castaivays,  by  Fred- 
erick Orin  Bartlett,  is  the  story  of  two  boys  lost 
in  the  Maine  woods  in  winter,  their  struggles  for 
existence  in  the  deserted  camp  which  they  found, 
and  their  final  return  to  safety  with  the  help  of 
a  mysterious  stranger  whose  problem  is  solved 
with  theirs.  Here  are  the  elements  of  adventure, 
camp  life,  w^oodcraft,  courage,  and  devotion  to 
friends. 

The  first  story  deals  very  plausibly  with  an 
impossible  combination  of  circumstances,  the  sec- 
ond equally  plausibly  with  an  entirely  possible 
situation.  The  chances  for  exciting  adventure  in 
the  Maine  woods  in  winter  are  equal  to  those 
of  almost  any  real  location.  They  cannot,  of 
course,  compete  with  those  which  arise  purely 
from  the  imagination.  A  fairy  story,  labeled 
such,  is  a  fair  proposition.  Nobody  is  expected 
to  believe  it  and  any^vay  boys  will  not  read  it. 
But  an  adventure  story  so  skilfully  handled  as 
to  confuse  the  immature  mind  about  its  actual 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  43 

possibilities  in  real  life,  takes  unfair  advantage 
of  the  young  reader.  He  is  likely  to  have  some 
unhappy  and  perhaps  serious  experiences  before 
he  finds  out  that  life  is  not  like  that. 

The  Boy  Scout  movement  has  opened  up  a  pro- 
lific source  of  adventure  material  in  the  last 
decade.  Much  of  the  writing  might  have  been 
done  by  the  boy  scouts  themselves.  The  Girl 
Scout  series  are  equally  crude  and  unfinished. 
This  group  of  scout  stories,  however,  serves  the 
desirable  purpose  of  focusing  the  attention  of 
boys  and  girls  on  out-door  sports  and  local  re- 
sources. Read  by  the  same  class  of  children  who 
were,  in  earlier  days,  patrons  of  the  wild  west 
novel,  they  react  with  a  much  more  wholesome 
effect  on  the  readers.  The  general  out-doors 
movement  is  likely  to  go  on.  There  is  room  here 
for  some  good  writing. 

Every  new  movement,  every  new  invention, 
every  fresh  social  upheaval  or  physical  cataclysm, 
offers  adventure  plots.  But  events  need  not  be 
revolutionizing  in  order  to  furnish  adventure 
story  material.  The  ordinary  occurrences  of  our 
day,  if  they  had  taken  place  with  just  that  slight 
difference  of  procedure  which  a  good  imagination 
can  supply,  offer  endless  variety  and  entertain- 
ment. Again,  the  proof  is  to  be  found  in  the  daily 
newspaper.  The  college  composition  exercise 
which  demands  a  daily  theme  has  the  advantage 
of  training  the  student  into  a  habit  of  alertness 
for  theme  subjects.     This  exercise  requiring  the 


44  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

construction  of  an  adventure  plot  suggested  by 
the  happenings  of  each  day  would  go  far  to  open 
up  for  the  writer  the  resources  of  daily  life. 

Since  the  adventure  story  is  used  in  this  book 
as  the  basis  of  the  chapters  on  structure,  further 
detail  in  regard  to  it  will  be  unnecessary  here. 

ADVENTURE  STORIES 

Bartlett,  Frederick  Orin. 
Forest  Castaivays. 

Clemens,  S.  L. 

Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer. 
Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn. 

Defoe,  Daniel. 

Robinson  Crusoe. 
Dix,  Beulah. 

Blithe  McBride. 

Merrylips. 

A  Little  Captive  Lad. 
Dodge,  Mary  Mapes. 

Hans  Brinker. 
DuGMORE,  Major  A.  R. 

Adventures  in  Beaver  Stream  Camp. 

Duncan,  Norman. 

The  Adventures  of  Billy  Topsail. 

Grenfell,  Wilfred  T. 

Tales  of  the  Labrador. 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles. 
Westward  Ho! 

Kipling,  Rudyard. 

Captains  Courageous. 
Kim. 


ADVENTURE  STORIES  45 

Masefield,  John. 
Jim  Davis. 

Moon,  Grace  and  Carl. 

Lost  Indian  Magic. 
Pyle,  Howard. 

Merry  Adventures  of  Robin  Hood. 

Richards,  Laura  M. 
Captain  January. 

Stevenson,  R.  L. 
Kidnapped. 
Treasure  Island. 

TOLMAN,  A,  W. 

Jim  Spurling,  Fislierman. 

Verne,  Jules. 

Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea. 
Wyss,  Johann  David. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson. 

ZWILGMEYER,   DiKKEN. 

What  Happened  to  Inger  Johanne. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Fairy  Tales 

Almost  any  issue  of  a  child's  magazine  has  at 
least  one  fairy  tale ;  each  Christmas  the  counters 
of  the  book  shops  are  piled  with  gorgeously  illus- 
trated books  of  fairy  stories;  nearly  always  in 
my  writing  class,  some  students  will  choose  the 
fairy  story  as  the  kind  best  fitted  for  their  medium 
of  thought. 

Before  one  decides  to  write  more  fairy  stories 
it  might  be  well  to  look  over  those  which  already 
exist  in  our  literature.  What  do  they  contribute 
to  the  credit  side  or  to  the  debit  side  of  literature 
for  children?  Put  aside  for  a  moment  the  imme- 
diate and  invariable  explanation  of  their  value, 
**They  cultivate  the  imagination  of  the  child." 
We  can  discuss  that  point  later. 

The  form  of  the  fairy  tale  has  justified  for  it 
a  high  place  on  the  credit  side.  The  influence  of 
stories  of  the  "once  upon  a  time"  beginning  is 
permanent.  The  dignity  and  beauty  of  diction 
in  the  old  sagas  and  fairy  tales  give  them  value 
aside  from  their  content.  Consider,  for  example, 
Grimm's  tale  called,  The  Frog  King,  or  Iron 
Henry.    It  begins,  "In  olden  times  when  wishing 

46 


FAIRY  TALES  47 

still  helped  one  there  lived  a  king  whose  daugh- 
ters were  all  beautiful,  but  the  youngest  was  so 
beautiful  that  the  sun  itself,  which  has  seen  so 
much,  was  astonished  whenever  it  shone  in  her 
face.  Close  by  the  King's  castle  lay  a  great  dark 
forest,  and  under  an  old  lime  tree  in  the  forest 
was  a  well,  and  when  the  day  was  very  warm,  the 
King's  child  went  out  into  the  forest  and  sat 
down  by  the  side  of  the  cool  fountain,  and  when 
she  was  dull  she  took  a  golden  ball  and  threw  it 
up  on  high  and  caught  it,  and  this  ball  was  her 
favorite  plaything." 

Notice  the  concrete  detail :  Not  merely  the  most 
beautiful  daughter  but  such  beauty  that  "the  sun 
itself  which  had  seen  so  much  was  astonished"; 
the  twilight  coolness  of  the  setting;  the  motion  of 
the  golden  ball;  the  Biblical  simplicity  of  the 
words  and  of  the  sentence  structure. 

The  ball  drops  into  the  well  and  the  child 
weeps.  Then  the  frog  appears.  "Ah!  old  water- 
splasher,  is  it  thou?"  Water-splasher,  and  later, 
"something  came  creeping  sphsli  splash,  splish 
splash,  up  the  marble  staircase,"  is  language  in 
the  terms  of  childhood.  Children  can  understand 
the  child's  disgust  when  the  frog  must  eat  from 
her  little  golden  plate  and  sleep  in  her  little  silken 
bed.  But  what  are  they  to  do  with  the  climax 
when  the  frog  in  her  bed  is  transformed  into  a 
beautiful  young  man  who  the  next  morning  drives 
away  with  her  as  her  husband?  The  king's  child 
is  not  a  child  at  all,  but  a  young  woman  concerned 


48  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

with  the  adult  proposition  of  marriage.  Mom- 
over,  all  of  the  reality  of  the  beginning  which  is 
comprehensible  through  the  child's  own  experi- 
ence is  gone,  replaced  by  an  utterly  impossible 
situation  which  is  related  to  the  concerns  of  grown 
up  people.  The  child  remembers  the  color  and 
beauty,  perhaps,  if  the  other  has  not  obscured  it ; 
and  at  best,  he  glances  lightly  at  the  rest  and 
leaves  it. 

So  through  the  old  fairy  tales,  the  Aladdin 
caves  of  splendor,  the  Arabian  steeds,  the  tiny 
mischief-makers  of  gnomes,  the  talking  compan- 
ionable animals,  color,  sounds,  action,  adventure, 
the  child's  mind  selects  whatever  has  familiarity 
of  concept  and  rejects  the  rest. 

Now  for  the  debit  side,  this  large  remainder, 
which  if  the  child  is  fortunate  enough,  he  can 
reject.  In  the  first  place,  fairy  stories  really 
have  very  little  to  do  with  children.  Hansel  and 
Gretel  admit  of  no  lover,  but  the  story  is  in  this 
way  exceptional.  The  living  happily  ever  after- 
ward refers  always  to  the  marriage  state  which 
is  the  culmination  of  a  series  of  more  or  less  dis- 
turbed love  experiences.  Most  fairy  stories  are 
obviously  hand-me-downs  from  the  adults  for 
whom  they  were  created,  who,  feeling  they  have 
outgrown  such  tales  a  bit,  substitute  magazine 
stories  and  pass  the  fairy  stories  over  to  the  chil- 
dren. For  the  adults,  the  stories  whether  fairy 
or  magazine,  serve  as  vicarious  fulfilment  of  un- 
satisfied desires.    But  life  is  not  so  meagre  for 


FAIRY  TALES  49 

children  yet.  And  even  if  it  were  incredibly- 
stunted,  would  a  child's  lack  of  satisfaction  ex- 
press itself  in  the  desire  for  a  beautiful  wife  or 
a  handsome  husband?  The  interest  of  the  child 
is  normally  with  the  child.  A  real  lady  with 
golden  hair  and  trailing  silken  robes  who  stood 
around  talking  with  a  gentleman  would  not  afford 
an  ordinary  child  the  slightest  degree  of  pleasure. 
He  would  not  be  seen  in  their  company  two  min- 
utes ;  just  long  enough  to  have  a  good  look  at  their 
general  color  effect.  If  the  lady  wore  glass  slip- 
pers, well  and  good.  He  might  ask  how  she  could 
bend  her  feet  in  them.  But  the  reason  for  the 
gentleman's  interest  in  them  would  make  little 
appeal  to  him.  The  love  affairs  of  his  aunt,  who 
may  be  a  very  personable  young  woman,  are  to 
him  obviously  dull  grown-up  problems  in  which 
he  has  no  desire  to  participate  and  with  which  he 
could  never  identify  himself.  Or  if  the  little 
girl  becomes  so  far  steeped  in  fairy  lore  that  she 
does  identify  herself  with  the  traditional  prin- 
cess, in  what  degree  is  she  any  better  off?  A  little 
girl  of  seven  whom  I  knew,  after  a  six  months* 
diet  of  fairy  stories,  became  quite  obsessed  by 
the  matrimonial  fitness  of  all  the  good  looking 
young  men  she  saw.  If,  then,  we  are  going  to 
write  fairy  stories  for  children,  why  give  them 
adult  situations? 

A  large  item  on  the  debit  side  of  fairy  literature 
is  the  emphasis  which  it  places  on  the  cruel  and 
vicious.     What  has  Bluebeard  to  offer  a  cliild? 


50  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Or  Red  Riding  Hood?  The  particular  kind  of 
perversity  which  caused  Bluebeard  to  dispose  of 
his  wives  is  not  likely  to  concern  a  child.  Any 
symbolism  which  lies  behind  the  tales  is  not  there 
for  the  child.  He  takes  his  reading  at  its  face 
value.  None  of  us  wishes  in  a  world  full  of  ex- 
traordinary and  interesting  realities  to  contribute 
the  kind  of  writing  which  would  serve  only  to 
make  day-dreamers  of  children.  Certain  psy- 
chologists are  even  recommending  nowadays  that 
children  should  not  be  taught  to  read  until  they 
have  reached  such  age  and  experience  as  shall 
enable  them  to  distinguish  between  reality  and  its 
substitute.  Such  an  indefinite  or  even  permanent 
postponement  might  not  always  be  wise,  but  at 
least  we  can  give  the  children  reading  matter 
which  is  not  too  far  removed  from  reality. 

The  question  comes,  ''Must  we  not  cultivate 
the  child's  imagination?"  There  is  perhaps 
nothing  about  the  child  which  grows  so  thriftily 
without  any  special  cultivation.  A  little  observa- 
tion of  his  make-believes  is  sufficient  to  convince 
one  of  that.  Yet  we  wish  to  furnish  him  with 
material  which  will  nourish  and  stimulate  that 
undeniable  asset  to  human  happiness,  the  imagi- 
nation. Fairy  stories  kept  within  the  realm  of 
youthful  experience  may  be  a  source  of  delight 
and  profit.  Such  stories  exist,  and  more  of  them 
slionld  be  written  instead  of  the  sugary  froth 
which  makes  up  so  many  of  the  new  fairy  books. 

Mrs.  Lucy  Sprague  Mitchell  in  the  introduction 


.1 


FAIRY  TALES  51 

to  her  Here  and  Noiv  Stories  p:ivos  a  remarkably 
sound  and  clear  statement  of  the  results  of  her 
experiments  with  children  in  providing  story 
material  which  deals  with  what  is  present  and 
concrete.  Her  substitute  for  giving  fairy  stories, 
which  she  calls  '^abandoning  a  child  in  unreal- 
ities," is  to  provide  familiar  facts  in  new  rela- 
tionships. Her  book  is  a  most  successful  result 
of  her  attempt. 

A  person  who  contemplates  writing  fairy  stor- 
ies needs  to  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  field  in 
order  to  realize  what  he  should  avoid  as  well  as 
where  he  may  wisely  cultivate.  We  find  certain 
pervading  objects  reappearing  in  fairy  sto- 
ries all  over  the  world.  A  few  minutes  of  con- 
templation of  fairy  stories  will  bring  to  mind  a 
list  of  considerable  length: 

Jewels,  precious  stones; 

Princess  with  long  golden  hair; 

Handsome  prince; 

Palaces  or  castles,  usually  with  turrets ; 

Silken  clothes ; 

Dark  woods; 

Monsters  of  various  sorts ; 

Animals  waiting  to  be  transformed; 

Ugly  stepmothers ; 

Beautiful  white  horses  or  chargers; 

Witches,  gnomes; 

Three  wishes ; 

Terrible   storms; 

Impossible  tasks  to  be  accomplished. 

Certain  simple  moral  concepts  of  the  childhood 
of  the  race  also  appear.     The  good  person  sue- 


52  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

ceeds,  the  bad  fails ;  punishment  inevitably  follows 
prying  into  forbidden  matters  snch  as  locked 
doors  or  boxes ;  hasty  words  are  foolish  and  lead 
nowhere  as  the  old  peasant  proved  with  the  three 
sausage  wishes.  The  beginner  usually  follows 
these  examples  by  making  his  naughty  child  fall 
asleep  and  dream  especially  apt  punishments. 

The  ancestry  of  fairy  tales  through  folk  lore, 
mythology,  and  ancient  religion  has  given  us 
these  age-old,  world-wide  factors.  The  themes 
hark  back  to  the  same  psychological  basis  for 
their  survival,  the  search  of  the  hard  pressed 
mind  to  escape  reality.  A  situation  offers  no 
human  way  out;  therefore  the  sufferer  from  it 
invents  a  supernatural  solution. 

Take  Cinderella,  or  the  Valiant  Little  Tailor, 
or  the  triumphant  youngest  son,  or  the  ugly 
duckling,  w^hich  appear  over  and  over  in  fairy 
tales :  aU  are  based  on  the  theme  of  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  the  weak,  oppressed,  or  unfortunate 
through  some  magic  agency.  The  same  under- 
lying scheme  points  toward  a  common  ancestry 
of  the  fairy  and  the  magazine  story.  A  heroine 
suppressed,  depressed;  an  unexpected  opportun- 
ity which  she  grasps ;  the  sudden  development  of 
beauty,  wit,  or  importance  of  some  kind ;  her  ulti- 
mate escape  from  the  original  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances usually  via  a  charming  and  interest- 
ing geTitleman.  The  Cinderella  theme  is  made  into 
a  modern  woman's  magazine  story  which  is  cred- 


FAIRY  TALES  53 

ible  enoug/i  to  make  the  older  girl  believe  that 
escape  from  reality  is  possible  for  her,  too. 

And  the  men  are  not  to  run  away  with  the  idea 
either  that  the  sex  of  Cinderella  is  always  female. 
If  the  downtrodden  misunderstood  clerk  who,  by 
some  happy  fluke  of  his  brain,  mounts  to  be 
treasured  adviser  of  the  company's  president 
were  eliminated,  the  pages  of  some  of  our  well- 
known  magazines  for  real  men  would  be  visibly 
depleted. 

If  the  fairy  story  does  not  solve  the  problem 
of  the  heroine  by  an  unexpected  gift  of  beauty  or 
wat,  it  sends  to  the  rescue,  through  another  group 
of  legends,  animals  of  miraculous  power  who  help 
men  and  women.  That  is,  the  harassed  person, 
helpless  under  the  pressure  of  some  burden,  looks 
about  him  and  sees  his  faithful  dog,  horse,  or 
what  not,  anxious  and  willing  to  do  anything 
which  his  master  wishes.  He  thinks,  "If  my  dog 
could  but  talk,  if  my  horse  could  but  fly,  if  these 
wild  animals  could  but  hide  me  in  their  lairs  and 
take  care  of  me  until  this  trouble  is  over !"  Then, 
being  somewhat  of  a  poet  under  pressure,  the 
harassed  human  being  dreams  such  solutions  for 
his  problems  and  tells  the  stories  to  his  children. 

In  fairy  tales  inanimate  objects  usually  have 
the  gift  of  speech.  Any  mother's  child  is  enough 
like  early  primitive  man  for  us  to  see  wiiy  the 
youth  of  the  race  and  of  the  individual  both  dis- 
cuss their  affairs  with  the  oak  tree  or  a  favorite 
chair.    They  are  alive,  and  they  think  of  all  other 


54  jm^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

things  as  living.  They  speak,  and  they  attribute 
to  all  other  things  the  gift  of  speech. 

Cinderella  seats  herself  among  the  ashes  be- 
cause it  was  an  ancient  custom  that  those  who 
were  unhappy  should  seat  themselves  among  the 
ashes.  So  the  savage  conditions  of  life  deter- 
mined the  queer  and  beloved  turns  of  our  fairy 
tales.  We  have  forgotten  the  savage  way  of  re- 
garding the  world,  but  our  fairy  tales  have  not. 

Because  of  this  primitive  ideality  of  human 
fancy  and  desire,  and  because  of  transmission  by 
wandering  and  conquering  tribes,  we  find  these 
common  denominators  in  fairy  tales  all  over  the 
world.  The  writer  remembers  her  astonishment 
at  hearing  King  Arthur  themes  from  the  old 
Turks  on  the  Black  Sea,  men  who  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  and  who  had  never  been  away 
from  those  ancient  isolated  villages.  Yet  the 
hand  clothed  in  white  samite  was  part  of  their 
folk  lore,  passed  on  through  the  generations  from 
the  time  when  the  Saxons  came  that  way. 

Such,  then,  is  the  old  drama  of  human  passion 
and  hope  which  forms  the  background  of  this 
richly  embroidered  tapestry  of  fairy  lore;  real 
enough  in  its  desires,  unreal  in  their  fulfilment; 
much  beauty  in  handling,  much  ugUness  in  sub- 
stance. 

The  poetic  child  will  find  the  beauty  but  not 
all  children  are  poets;  nor  is  the  imagination  of 
every  child  stimulated  by  the  unreal;  and  by  cer- 
tain liappy  combinations  of  fate  and  civilization 


FAIRY  TALES  55 

not  all  children  find  reality  difficult  to  deal  with. 
The  corollary  folloAvs  that  not  all  children  like 
fairy  tales.  Alice  in  Wonderland  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  psychological  test  for  the  intelligence  of 
youth.  Many  an  adult  in  his  heart  knows  that 
only  maturity  brought  any  appreciation  of  Alice. 
But  if  Alice's  adventures  seem  strained  and  un- 
real to  the  matter-of-fact  child,  he  may  still  like 
the  Wonder  fid  Adventures  of  Nils,  or  the  Just 
So  Stories,  books  which  prove  to  us  that  the  great 
writers  could  if  they  only  would. 

The  humor  of  a  child  may  seem  rather  a  primi- 
tive variety  to  the  adult.  But  humor  or  a  sense 
of  the  absurd,  or  enjoyment  of  the  unexpected, 
whatever  you  may  call  it,  makes  the  little  child 
call  for  Blach  Samho  until  he  knows  it  by  heart. 
It  lies  behind  his  enjoyment  of  the  older  child  in 
Br.  Dolittle,  a  book  which  is  a  permanent  con- 
tribution to  juvenile  literature. 

One  day  a  plow-horse  was  brought  to  him ;  and  the 
poor  thing  was  terribly  glad  to  find  a  man  who  could 
talk  in  horse  lanj^uagc. 

"You  know,  Doctor,"  said  the  horse,  "that  vet  over 
the  hill  knows  nothing  at  all.  He  has  been  treating  me 
six  weeks  now — for  spavins.  What  I  need  is  spectacles. 
I  am  going  blind  in  one  eye.  There's  no  reason  why 
horses  shouldn't  wear  glasses,  the  same  as  people.  But 
that  stupid  man  over  the  hill  never  even  looked  at  my 
eyes.  He  kept  on  giving  me  big  pills.  I  tried  to  tell 
him;  but  he  couldn't  understand  a  word  of  horse  lan- 
guage.   What  I  need  is  spectacles." 

"Of  course — of  course,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I'll  get 
you  some  at  once." 


56  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

**I  would  like  a  pair  like  yours,"  said  the  horse, 
* '  only  green.  They  '11  keep  the  sun  out  of  my  eyes  while 
I'm  plowing  the  Fifty-Acre  Field." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Green  ones  you  shall 
have." 

"You  know,  the  trouble  is,  Sir,"  said  the  plow-horse, 
as  the  Doctor  opened  the  front  door  to  let  him  out — "the 
trouble  is  that  anybody  thinks  he  can  doctor  animals 
— just  because  the  animals  don't  complain.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  it  takes  a  much  cleverer  man  to  be  a  really  good 
animal  doctor  than  it  does  to  be  a  good  people's  doctor. 
My  fanner's  boy  thinks  he  knows  all  about  horses.  I 
wish  you  could  see  him — his  face  is  so  fat  he  looks  as 
though  he  had  no  eyes — and  he  has  got  as  much  brain 
as  a  potato-bug.  He  tried  to  put  a  mustard  plaster  on 
me  last  week." 

"Where  did  he  put  it?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  put  it  anywhere — on  me,"  said  the 
horse.  "He  only  tried  to.  I  kicked  him  into  the  duck 
pond." 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  Doctor. 

"I'm  a  pretty  quiet  creature  as  a  rule,"  said  the 
horse — "very  patient  with  people — don't  make  much 
fuss.  But  it  was  bad  enough  to  have  that  vet  giving 
me  the  wrong  medicine.  And  when  that  red-faced  booby 
started  to  monkey  with  me,  I  just  couldn't  bear  it  any 
more. ' ' 

"Did  you  hurt  the  boy  much?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  horse.  "I  kicked  liim  in  the  right 
place.  The  vet's  looking  after  him  now.  When  will  my 
glasses  be  ready?" 

"I'll  liave  them  for  you  next  week,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"Come  in  again  Tuesday —     Good  morning!" 

Then  John  Dolittle  got  a  fine  big  pair  of  green  spec- 
tacles, and  the  plow-horse  stopped  going  blind  in  one 
eye  and  could  see  as  well  as  ever. 

And   soon   it  became  a   common  sight  to  see   farm- 


FAIRY  TALES  57 

animals  wearing  glasses  in  the  country  around  Puddle- 
by  ;  and  a  blind  horse  was  a  thing  unknown.^ 

Dr.  Dolittle's  incredible  adventures  are  given 
with  the  utmost  gravity  and  convincing  detail. 
Their  imaginative  leaps  are  unpredictable  and 
immeasurable.  No  one  asks  if  they  are  true  be- 
cause everyone  knows  that  they  are  not.  And 
nobody  cares.  If  a  story  with  qualities  of  Dr. 
Dolittle  could  be  produced  once  a  decade,  chil- 
dren's literature  would  soon  ask  nothing  of  adults, 
though  it  might  consent  to  lend. 

It  is  the  rare  person  who  can  write  a  Dr.  Do- 
little.  An  imaginative  tale  of  any  kind  requires 
more  than  most  writers  are  prepared  to  give. 
The  fanciful  ideas  are  only  a  part.  The  theme 
behind  the  fancy,  the  diction  with  which  to  clothe 
it  properly,  the  sense  of  what  belongs  to  children ; 
let  the  writer  be  sure  that  his  story  has  all  these 
supports.  Then  let  him  consider  how  much  de- 
pends upon  the  illustrator.  If  he  can  draw  con- 
vincing absurdities  as  Hugh  Lofting  did  for  his 
Dr.  Dolittle,  he  has  success  in  his  own  hands. 
Otherwise  his  illustrator  may  make  or  mar  his 
story.  Most  of  the  renewed  popularity  of  old 
tales  has  been  due  to  the  exquisite  drawings  with 
which  they  have  been  refurbished. 

Fairy  tales  are  in  a  situation  which  is  no  longer 
impregnable.  Their  worth  is  being  questioned  and 

*  Reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Story  of  Dr.  Dolittle,  by 
Hugh  Lofting.    Copyright  1920,  by  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


58  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

their  value  impugned.  To  add  to  the  supply  a 
writer  must  have  an  awareness  of  conditions  and 
a  knowledge  of  the  tools  with  which  he  works. 
We  may  not  need  a  greater  number  of  fairy  tales, 
perhaps,  but  we  certainly  need  a  better  quality. 

FAIRY  STORIES 

Anderson,  Hans  Christian. 
Fairy  Tales. 

Barrie,  James  M. 
Peter  Pan. 

Carrol,  Lewis. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland. 

CoLUM,  Padraic. 

The  Boy  Who  Knew  WJiat  the  Birds  Smd. 

Craik,  Dinah  M. 

The  Little  Lame  Prince. 

EwiNG,  Mrs. 

Loh  Lie  hy  the  Fire. 

Fillmore,  Parker. 

Czechoslovak  Fairy  Tales. 

Grimm,  J.  L.  K.  and  W.  K. 

Fairy  Tales. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler. 
Uncle  Remus. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel. 
Tanglewood  Tales. 

Inglelow,  Jean. 

Mopsa  the  Fairy. 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles. 
Water  Babies. 


FAIRY  TALES  59 


Lagerlof,  S.  O.  L. 

The  Wonderful  Adventures  of  Nils. 

Lang,  Andrew. 

Tlie  Blue  Fairy  Book. 

Arabian  Nights,  Selected  and  Edited. 

MoLESwoRTii,  Mrs. 
The  Cuckoo  Clock. 

Pyle,  Howard. 
Wonder  Clock. 

RusKiN,  John. 

King  of  the  Golden  River, 

Swift,  Jonathan. 

Gulliver's  Travels. 

WlGGIN,  K.  D.  AND  N.  A. 
The  Fairy  Ring. 

Wilde,  Oscar. 
Fairy  Tales. 


CHAPTER  V 

Animal  Stories 

Anyone  who  has  brought  up  a  puppy  and  a 
baby  knows  that  the  two  have  much  in  common; 
they  get  into  and  out  of  mischief  in  much  the 
same  ways ;  they  run  their  lives  through  the  direc- 
tion of  their  instincts  with  much  the  same  vigor. 
The  close  approximation  of  these  coimnon  in- 
stincts during  early  development  may  be  the 
basis  of  the  child's  peculiarly  sympathetic  under- 
standing of  animals.  He  always  likes  to  hear 
stories  about  them,  and  unless  he  has  been  terri- 
fied by  an  unfortunate  experience  or  by  nurses' 
warnings,  he  usually  likes  the  animals  themselves. 

The  writer  who  can  turn  out  good  animal  stories 
has  an  insatiable  audience  for  them.  Witness  the 
never-ending  series  which  Thornton  Burgess  pro- 
duces. Because  much  has  been  done  in  the  field 
of  animal  stories  and  because  much  remains  to  be 
done,  we  should  look  the  ground  over  before  be- 
ginning to  cultivate  it.  In  some  places  the  soil 
is  run  out ;  in  other  places  it  is  ready  for  profitable 
crops. 

Animal  stories  may  be  roughly  classified  into 
three  varieties:  straight  animal  stories,  animals 

60 


ANIMAL  STORIES  61 

personified,  and  animals  in  their  relations  to  hu- 
man l)eings.  Like  all  classifications  this  one  does 
not  hold.  That  is,  it  is  not  hard  and  fast,  since 
one  group  frequently  runs  over  into  the  other. 
But  for  a  survey  of  the  field,  these  fences  are 
good  landmarks. 

By  straight  animal  stories  I  refer  to  the  kind  of 
plot  which  is  concerned  entirely  or  largely  with 
the  animals  themselves.  Occasionally  these  ani- 
mals are,  to  a  slight  degree,  personified  in  that 
one  is  told  how  they  think  and  feel;  and  occa- 
sionally a  human  being  has  a  minor  part  in  the 
drama.  But  on  the  whole  the  struggle  is  between 
animals  and  its  results  affect  the  animals  only. 

In  this  group  we  may  have  three  varieties  of 
struggle  from  which  to  make  a  writing  choice. 
First,  the  struggle  for  existence,  which  has  served 
as  the  basis  of  so  many  of  Ernest  Thompson 
Seton's  stories,  for  example,  Wild  Animals  I 
Have  Knoivn.  To  write  stories  of  this  sort,  one 
needs  a  background  of  impregnable  scientific  ob- 
servation and  knowledge.  Otherwise  one  runs 
the  risk  of  *' Nature  Fakir"  obloquy.  Stories  of 
this  sort  serve  often  to  make  natural  history  in- 
teresting to  youngsters  to  whom  the  study  from 
its  original  sources  would  never  be  available. 

Second  in  the  straight  animal  group  comes  the 
struggle  of  development.  This  form  of  story  is 
frequently  pedagogical.  It  is  illustrated  by  the 
book  called  Nuova,  or,  The  New  Bee,  by  the  Kel- 
loggs,  which  concerns  itself  with  the  life  of  the 


62  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

bee  written  in  more  or  less  of  fairy  diction.  Be- 
hind the  book  are  the  observations  and  records  of 
estabhshed  scientists,  the  authors.  But  the  book, 
unhke  those  of  Fabre  and  of  Maeterlinck,  is  put 
into  fiction  form.  Such  a  proceeding  is  on  the 
whole  dangerous  unless  the  writer  has  the  double 
gift  of  a  feehng  for  fiction  and  a  training  in 
science. 

The  third  variety  of  the  group  is  the  rarest  of 
all,  the  kind  of  story  which  is  written  in  the  form 
of  phantasy.  Kipling's  Just  So  Stories  are  the 
inimitable  and  much  imitated  illustration  of 
phantasy  handled  by  a  genius.  Parts  of  Dr.  Do- 
little  which  relate  to  the  activities  of  the  animals 
alone  come  in  this  group,  and  form  a  modern  and 
valiant  second  to  KipHng.  Only  the  rare  person 
can  handle  phantasy.  He  must  have  humor  which 
is  both  subtle  and  simple,  but  which  never  ap- 
proaches the  slap-stick  variety — a  prerequisite 
difficult  enough  to  insure  small  competition  to  any 
writer  who  succeeds  in  this  field. 

The  second  classification  of  animal  stories, 
animals  personified,  includes  a  great  variety  of 
stories  written  for  little  children  of  which  those 
of  Thornton  Burgess  are  perhaps  as  well  known 
as  any.  The  original  Peter  Rahhit  of  Beatrix 
Potter,  her  Tailor  of  Gloucester,  etc.,  are  in  form 
and  substance  among  the  most  deUghtful  and  best 
loved  of  the  personified  animals.  The  Tailor  of 
Gloncrstcr,  indeed,  earns  the  right  to  be  called  a 
children's  classic.     Like  many  classics,  it  has  a 


ANIMAL  STORIES  63 

reach  beyond  its  readers  in  diction  and  substance, 
but  like  a  real  classic  it  holds  and  intrigues  the 
reader  until  he  stretches  over  into  new  spaces. 

On  the  whole  Dr.  Dolittle  belongs  in  this  group, 
though  no  better  example  of  the  futility  of  classi- 
lication  could  be  afforded  than  by  the  versatility 
with  which  he  fits  into  each  group  and  then  gets 
listed  in  catalogues  under  fairy  stories.  In  each 
group,  however,  he  belongs  at  the  top. 

Much  inane  drivel  about  personified  animals 
has  been  written  under  the  supposition  that  it  was 
suitable  for  children.  They  read  it  because  they 
will  read  anything.  But  editors  and  publishers 
should  be  held  responsible  since  the  children  are 
helpless.  A  writer  need  not  work  on  the  hypothe- 
sis that  his  reader  is  feeble-minded  because  he  is 
young.  Quality,  not  quantity,  needs  to  be  empha- 
sized in  the  group.  Closely  related  to  personified 
animals  are  the  animals  of  fairy  lore,  such  as 
Puss  in  Boots,  The  Three  Bears,  The  Three  Pigs, 
Blacky,  "Whitey,  and  Brownie,  and  all  of  the  ani- 
mals waiting  to  be  transformed  into  their  original 
states.  The  animals  are  usually  employed  to 
point  a  moral  or  to  give  a  leg-up  to  a  tale;  not 
much  attention,  therefore,  is  given  to  their  nat- 
ural characteristics. 

The  great  group  of  stories  about  animals  is  the 
one  which  concerns  itself  with  their  relation  to 
human  beings.  Here  for  ease  in  our  survey  w^e 
may  sub-divide.  The  first  variety  which  suggests 
itself  is  the  struggle  of  animals  against  man. 


64  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  first  half  of  Blach  Beauty  illustrates  the  kind 
of  struggle  in  which  the  horse  has  the  hand  of 
man  against  it.  The  wild  horse  and  wild  dog  stor- 
ies of  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  show  the  struggle  of 
the  animal  to  hold  its  own  against  the  mastery 
of  man.  Burgess  now  and  then  introduces  the 
hunter  who  attempts  or  accomplishes  damage  to 
the  animals;  though  any  damage  is  always  re- 
paired immediately  by  Farmer  Brown's  boy. 

Then  with  opposite  intention  writers  have  given 
us  a  group  of  stories  wherein  the  struggle  of  the 
animals  is  for  man.  These  stories  make  up  the 
largest  and  best  known  division  of  animal  stor- 
ies. A  Dog  of  Flanders,  Boh,  Son  of  Battle,  Ter- 
hune's  Lad  and  Bruce  stories,  my  own  Dr.  Tam 
O'Slianter,  are  among  the  numerous  illustrations 
of  this  sort  of  animal  story.  Writer  and  reader 
both  like  the  theme  of  faithfulness  and  service  to 
man.  The  devotion  of  animals  to  their  masters 
offers  endless  variety  for  fiction  material. 

The  struggle  of  man  against  animals  is  usually 
connected  with  pioneer  tales  or  hunting  and  trap- 
ping stories.  The  writer  attempts  no  character- 
ization of  the  animal  and  has  no  interest  in  him 
except  as  prey.  The  main  interest  of  the  story 
is  in  the  struggle  of  the  pioneer  to  gain  his  foot- 
hold or  of  the  hunter  to  make  a  living. 

The  struggle  of  man  for  animals  has  not  many 
exponents.  Now  and  then  the  human  being  makes 
some  real  sacrifice  for  his  animal  fricMid  but  on 
the  whole,  man  is  the  lord  of  creation.     Such  a 


ANIMAL  STORIES  65 

story  as  Samuel  Derieux's  The  Trial  in  Tom 
Belcher's  Store  is  an  achievement  in  this  field. 
Davy's  bitter  struggle  for  the  hound  dog,  Buck, 
has  in  it  enough  reality  to  make  it  extremely  mov- 
ing. 

Considerable  diversity  in  the  way  of  plot  pos- 
sibilities offers  itself  to  the  writer  of  animal  sto- 
ries. In  all  of  the  varieties  the  same  temptation 
entices  and  frequently  entraps  him,  the  tempta- 
tion to  become  sentimental.  In  writing  about 
children  and  animals  the  best  of  authors  is  likely 
to  slip  from  sentiment  into  sentimentality.  Ani- 
mals are,  of  course,  sentimental  but  their  natural 
tendency  scarcely  justifies  the  amount  which  is 
put  over  on  them.  Animals  are  not  always  noble, 
nor  are  their  lives  always  a  series  of  heart-wring- 
ing episodes.  On  the  contrary  their  youth  rep- 
resents the  art  of  play  perfected,  and  ahuost  any 
specimen,  in  its  early  stages  at  least,  can  provide 
the  complete  antidote  to  melancholy.  Just  as  the 
stories  about  children  have  had  to  evolve  from 
the  Little  Eva  variety  to  the  reality  of  the  mod- 
ern child,  so  stories  of  animals  are  passing  out 
from  sentimental  ancestral  influence  into  their 
own  delightful  reality. 

Another  tendency  of  the  animal  writer  is  to 
endow  his  dog,  horse  or  hen  with  human  charac- 
teristics enough  to  make  of  it  a  fairly  valuable 
citizen.  Animals  have  enough  generic  as  well  as 
individual  characteristics  to  make  them  interest- 
ing material  without  investing  them  with  the  hu- 


66  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

man  variety.  Anthropomorphism  becomes  with 
some  writers  ahnost  as  deadly  as  it  sounds. 

No  writer  should  attempt  an  animal  story,  no 
matter  how  dramatic  a  plot  he  may  have  evolved, 
unless  he  has  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
animal  whereof  he  speaks.  If  he  feels  he  must 
write  a  dog  story  and  lacks  that  intimacy,  let 
him  go  out  and  acquire  a  dog  for  a  period 
long  enough  to  learn  that  its  psychology  is 
very  different  from  that  of  a  cat.  Along  with  this 
knowledge  will  come  enough  practical  hints  to 
make  of  his  story  a  more  convincing  thing  than 
it  would  have  been  with  a  theoretical  basis.  The 
potential  animal  writer,  fortunately,  is  predis- 
posed toward  his  choice  of  material  by  his  affec- 
tion for  it  and  his  understanding  of  it.  An  ani- 
mal story  written  by  a  class  as  an  assignment 
soon  reveals  which  members  have  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  animal  friends. 

Certain  tests  of  animal  stories,  while  they  may 
not  prove  infallible,  will  perhaps  help  to  decide 
the  special  merits  of  an  animal  story  from  the 
critical  standpoint  whether  of  an  author  or  of 
a  reader. 

Is  the  plot  based  on  something  which  is  real 
or  has  it  the  illusion  of  reality?  Select  the  par- 
ticular details  which  carry  conviction. 

Has  the  story  emotional  value  without  senti- 
mentality? 

Does  it  give  the  reader  the  feeling  of  having 


ANIMAL  STORIES  67 

known  the  animal?  Of  wishing  to  know  more  of 
him? 

Does  the  reader  feel  that  the  characterization 
is  really  that  of  an  animal  or  of  a  hmnan  being 
in  disguise? 

Perhaps  one  of  the  first  details  which  catches 
the  baby's  attention  about  an  animal  is  the  noise 
which  it  makes.  The  dog  is  the  Bow- Wow,  the 
cow  is  the  Moo  Cow,  the  sheep  the  Baa-Baa,  while 
the  horse  which  so  rarely  makes  a  noise  in  the 
hearing  of  the  child  is  plain  horse.  Again,  this 
sound  detail  is  the  one  which  first  captures  him 
in  the  oral  story.  What  is  the  climax  of  the  toe 
drama?  Indubitably  the  "AVee!  AVee!  Wee!  I 
can't  find  my  way  home !"  Certainly  the  predica- 
|ment  of  the  lost  pig  is  not  the  thing  which  ex- 
cites appreciative  squeals  but  the  accuracy  with 
which  the  narrator  can  imitate  "Wee!  Wee! 
Wee!" 

For  the  next  half  dozen  years  the  child  will 
give  immediate  and  sympathetic  response  to  the 
concrete  detail  of  a  story  which  deals  accurately 
with  the  animal's  form  of  speech.  Perliaps  he  is 
keener  to  hear  the  overtones  and  interpret  them 
since  so  much  of  his  own  language  is  limited  by 
the  inhibitions  of  the  animal.  In  any  case  he  has 
opened  for  himself  a  channel  of  sense  observation 
which  writers  would  do  well  to  deepen  and  widen 
for  him.  So  many  channels  become  closed  by  the 
time  childhood  is  over. 

An  illustration  of  the  use  of  such  concrete  de- 


68  JIA^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

tail  to  animate  the  written  word  is  most  success- 
fully worked  out  by  Mrs.  Mitchell  in  her  story 
Dog  Pedro.  The  story  includes  not  only  voice 
detail,  but  the  sounds  of  action,  etc. : 

Again  on  the  sidewalk  went  his  feet.  You  could  hear 
them  as  they  beat — pitter  patter,  pitter  patter,  pitter 
patter  down  the  street. 

When  he  came  to  the  end  of  this  block,  he  started 
across  the  next  street. 

Pitter  patter,  pitter  patter,  pitter  pat — Pedro  stopped 
with  one  little  front  foot  up  in  the  air.  In  the  middle 
of  the  street  stood  a  man.  He  had  on  high  rubber  boots 
and  he  held  a  big  hose. 

Shrzshrzshrzshrzshrz — came  the  water  out  of  the  hose. 
It  hit  the  street.  Splsh  splsh  splsh  splsh !  It  ran  in  a 
little  stream  into  the  hole  in  the  gutter — gubble,  gubble, 
gubble,  gubble,  gubble!  This  was  something  new  to 
Pedro.     He  didn't  understand. 

Pitter  patter,  pitter  patter,  pitter  patter.  He  thought 
he'd  better  find  out  about  it. 

*'Hie,  you  little  dog!    Look  out!"  shouted  the  man. 

Pitter  patter,  pitter  patter,  pitter  patter. 

"Hie,  you  little  dog!     I  say  look  out!" 

Pitter  patter,  pitter  pat — ^ssssssssss  bang!  The  water 
hit  him! 

"Ki-eye!  yowl  yow!"  Kathump,  kathump,  kathump; 
kathump,  kathump,  kathump,  kathump  !  Fast,  fast  went 
Pedro's  feet,  running,  tearing  down  the  street. 

"Ki-eye!  I'm  going  home!"  Kathump,  kathump, 
kathumj),  kathump  down  the  sidewalk,  'cross  the  street, 
'nothor  sidewalk,  'nother  street,  kathump,  katlnimp, 
kathuiiii),  kathump!  Pedro  was  at  home.  Skippety, 
skippcty  up  the  stairs.  Pedro  was  at  liis  own  front 
door. 

[Prom  "Pedro's  Feet."] 


ANIMAL  STORIES  69 

Like  all  other  juvenile  stories,  the  animal 
story  must  have  a  successful  beginning  to  insure 
the  continued  attention  oi'  the  reader.  A  descrip- 
tive beginning  is  usually  interesting  to  the  child 
to  the  degree  that  the  author  has  been  able  to 
make  it  active  description.  For  example,  the 
opening  of  How  Spot  Found  a  Home  gives  a 
fairly  detailed  description  of  the  cat  and  her  en- 
vironment, but  by  moving  the  animal  through  her 
surroundings  an  active  land  of  description  is 
secured. 

Once  there  was  a  cat.  She  was  a  black  and  white  and 
yellow  cat  and  the  boys  on  the  street  called  her  Spot. 
For  she  was  a  poor  cat  with  no  home  but  the  street. 
When  she  wanted  to  sleep  she  had  to  hunt  for  a  dark 
empty  cellar.  When  she  wanted  to  eat  she  had  to  hunt 
for  a  garbage  can.  So  poor  Spot  was  very  thin  and  very 
unhappy.  And  much  of  the  time  she  prowled  and 
yowled  and  howled. 

The  opening  of  Nuova;  or,  The  New  Bee,  on 
the  contrary,  is  pretty  solid  description  and  un- 
less the  child  is  eager  for  knowledge,  it  may  baffle 
him. 

The  expository  beginning  offers  much  the  same 
difficulty  as  the  descriptive.  An  explanation  of 
a  situation  rarely  interests  a  young  reader.  He 
cares  little  about  the  past,  and  his  interest  in  the 
present  lies  in  its  being  the  time  setting  of  the 
very  story  which  is  about  to  be  unraveled.  So  why 
stop  at  tie  beginning  to  explain  it?    If  the  story 


70  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

is  well  handled,  tlie  situation  develops  itself  as 
it  goes  along.  A  Dog  of  Flanders  is  an  example 
of  the  older  form  of  story  which  was  likely  to 
use  exposition  for  its  serious  beginning. 

The  direct  beginning  offers  as  great  a  security 
as  any  that  the  reader's  attention  will  be  cap- 
tured. It  may  be  in  the  form  of  the  narrative 
of  action,  a  beginning  which  occurs  most  success- 
fully in  many  of  the  animal  stories  of  Samuel 
Derieux.    The  Destiny  of  Dan  VI  opens  thus : 

The  baggageman  slid  open  the  side  door  of  the  car. 
With  a  rattle  of  his  chain  Dan  sprang  to  his  feet.  A 
big  red  Irish  setter  was  Dan,  of  his  breed  sixth,  and 
most  superb,  his  colour  wavy-bronze,  his  head  erect  and 
noble,  his  eyes  eloquent  with  that  upward-looking  appeal 
of  hunting  dog  to  hunting  man. 

The  writer  may  secure  a  dramatization  of  ac- 
tion by  giving  his  opening  to  the  reader  like  a 
scene  on  the  stage,  with  action  and  dialogue  to- 
gether. Here  the  stage  business  helps  to  illumi- 
nate the  situation  and  a  touch  or  two  gives  the 
immediate  setting. 

In  general,  the  writer  of  good  animal  stories 
has  a  very  good  chance  of  seeing  his  stuff  in 
print.  The  public,  young  and  old,  enjoys  the  aj)- 
pearance  of  an  animal  on  the  stage,  on  the  screen, 
or  in  a  story.  Nothing  pleases  an  audience  more 
than  to  see  a  dog  or  a  horse  enter  the  drama. 
Even  if  his  part  is  too  insignificant  to  be  classified 
with  speaking  parts,  he  has  the  immediate  and 


ANIMAL  STORIES  71 

absorbed  interest  of  his  audience  until  he  leaves 
the  stage  or  screen.  A  good  animal  story  is  al- 
ways in  demand  for  publication  in  almost  any 
magazine.  But  a  good  animal  story  must  always 
be  the  outcome  of  real  experience  with  animals 
and  a  genuine  understanding  of  them. 

ANIMAL  STORIES 

Atkinson,  Eleanor  S. 
Or ey friars  Bohhy. 

Brown,  John. 

Rob  and  His  Friends. 

Burgess,  Thornton. 

Darling,  E.  B. 

Baldy  of  Nome. 

Derieux,  Samuel. 

Frank  of  Freedom  Hitl. 

Dyer,  Walter. 

Pierrot,  Dog  of  Belgium. 
The  Dog  of  Bayton. 

Grahame,  Kenneth. 

The  Wind  in  the  Willows. 

Hawkes,  Clarence. 

Piebald,  King  of  the  Bronchos. 

Kipling,  Rudyard. 
Jungle  Books. 
Just  So  Stories. 

Lofting,  Hugh. 
Dr.  Dolittle. 

London,  Jack. 

The  Call  of  the  Wild. 
Jerry  of  the  Islands. 


72  Jin^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

MuiR,  John. 

Stickeen:  The  Story  of  a  Dog. 

Ollivant,  Alfred. 

Boh,  Son  of  Battle. 

Orton,  Helen  Fuller. 

Prince  and  Rover  of  Cloverfield  Farm. 

"OUIDA. 

A  Dog  of  Flanders. 

Potter,  Beatrix. 

Tale  of  Mr.  Peter  Rahhit. 

Robinson,  Mabel  L. 

Dr.  Tarn  O'SJianter. 

Saunders,  Marshall. 

Bonny  Prince  Fetlar. 
Beautiful  Joe. 

Sew  ALL,  Anna. 
Black  Beauty. 

Seton,  Ernest  Thompson. 

^^Hld  Animals  I  Have  Known. 

Terhune,  a.  p. 
Lad:  A  Dog. 


CHAPTER  VI 

School  or  College  Stories 

The  field  of  school  stories  is  a  favorite  place 
for  beginners  to  congregate.  In  it  are  produced 
some  of  our  best  juvenile  stories  and  many  of  our 
worst.  A  large  proportion  of  the  good  ones  are 
boys'  stories  and  a  large  proportion  of  the  poor 
ones  are  girls'  stories. 

The  boys'  stories  are  likely  to  deal  with  real 
situations.  The  struggle  is  often  in  athletic  terms 
with  good  sportsmanship  interwoven  for  a  theme. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  moral  struggle  of  which  any 
school  career  offers  plenty  of  material.  Then  the 
boy  has  to  work  out  the  right  or  wrong  of  the 
case  and  make  his  ultimate  decision.  Again  the 
struggle  may  be  mental  as  in  work,  competition, 
striving  for  honors,  etc. 

Or  the  boys'  school  story  may  concern  itself 
with  straight  development  of  character  as  in 
William  Heyliger's  High  Benton,  in  which  High 
goes  through  a  small  town  high  school  where  ex- 
periences which  might  befall  any  boy  serve  to 
bring  him  to  a  kind  of  steady  maturity.  Friend- 
ship between  boys,  sane  and  lasting  because  built 
on  a  real  foundation,  often  serves  as  a  school 

73 


74  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

story  theme.  Almost  always  the  relation  between 
boys  and  the  school  authorities  enters  somewhere 
in  the  story.  But  compare  the  treatment  of  that 
relation  with  the  way  in  which  the  writers  of  girls' 
stories  usually  manage  school  authority.  In  the 
boys'  stories  authority,  as  it  is  ordinarily  rep- 
resented in  the  real  school,  is  treated  much  as  it 
is  met  with  there,  sometimes  with  obedience, 
sometimes  by  rebellion.  Issues  are  likely  to  be 
met  squarely  and  fought  out  as  reasonable  issues. 
The  boy  reader  recognizes  the  possibility  of  such 
things  happening  in  his  own  school  and  he  may 
find  the  outcome  more  or  less  constructive. 

But  mth  the  girls'  boarding  school  stories  the 
authorities  partake  usually  of  the  harpy  variety. 
They  stand  as  types  representing  almost  any  un- 
desirable characteristic  and  their  relation  to  the 
girls  is  usually  that  of  tormentor  to  victim.  The 
girl,  of  course,  always  succeeds  in  defeating  her 
unpopular  enemy. 

In  girls'  stories  the  favorite  plot  is  concerned 
with  breaking  rules  and  the  narrow  escapes  from 
punishment.  The  rules  are  sometimes  such  as 
might  be  conceived  adequate  in  a  reform  school 
and  they  are  likely  never  to  occur  in  the  school 
experience  of  the  reader.  Since  there  is  no  re- 
ality behind  them,  there  can  be  no  reality  in  the 
situation  which  they  cause  or  in  the  methods  by 
which  they  are  combated. 

Girls  in  boarding  schools  seem  largely  occu- 
pied with  fudge  parties,  breaking  rules,  and  fas- 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES        75 

cinating  college  boys.  They  deliver  themselves 
of  much  sentimental  twaddle  about  **Life,"  and 
graduate  in  a  state  of  incomparable  lovehness. 

Just  why  a  boarding  school  for  boys  and  a 
boarding  school  for  girls  should  connotate  such 
utterly  diverse  standards  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand. Girls  know,  and  so  do  writers,  that  the 
high  school  offers  no  such  opportunity  for  the 
play  of  the  imagination.  Its  only  advantage  lies 
in  the  opportunity  for  sentimental  relations  with 
boys.  On  the  whole,  however,  these  are  not  suf- 
ficient to  place  the  high  school  on  a  par  with  the 
boarding  school  as  a  popular  setting  for  the 
school  story. 

The  college  has  suffered  somewhat  the  same 
difficulty  in  its  use  as  the  basis  of  girls'  stories. 
The  college  girl,  of  course,  never  reads  the  college 
story.  She  is  far  beyond  its  lure  and  safe  in  the 
fold  of  English  literature.  Besides  she  knows 
now  that  college  is  not  like  that  picture,  anyway. 
The  girl  who  reads  college  stories  is  still  in  the 
prep  stage,  perhaps  more  or  less  insecure  as  to 
the  result  of  this  preparation,  perhaps  with  no 
intention  of  ever  testing  the  plausibility  of  the 
tales.  The  college  stories  are  apparently  written 
down  to  her  immaturity  and  on  the  plane  of  her 
inexperience.  She,  therefore,  can  read  them  with 
great  ease  and  enjoyment. 

A  real  college  story,  written  with  honesty  and 
integrity  of  purpose,  might  not  turn  out  to  be  a 
juvenile  at  all.    It  might  even  be  a  story  of  high 


76  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

adventure,  of  grim  struggle,  or  of  tragedy.  But 
such  a  story  has  yet  to  be  written. 

The  school  story,  in  general,  offers  the  writer 
considerable  variety  in  plot  as  its  basis.  The 
struggle  may  be  in  class  terms  such  as  the  rivalry 
of  Freshmen  versus  Sophomores  mth,  of  course, 
certain  outstanding  individuals  to  direct  it.  Or 
it  may  be  between  groups  bent  on  the  same 
object  of  success  as  illustrated  by  the  struggle 
between  football,  baseball,  basketball  teams. 
Stories  of  this  sort  carry  standards  of  good 
sportsmanship  and  team  work  to  the  hojs.  Girls* 
stories  tend  to  avoid  athletics,  possibly  because 
of  the  inexperience  of  their  writers. 

When  the  struggle  is  between  individuals  it 
may  be  based  on  social  differences  such  as  the 
poor  versus  the  rich  as  in  many  American  stories, 
or  family  and  station  by  birth  versus  the  lowly 
born,  a  favorite  English  situation.  The  unpopu- 
lar person  may  struggle  with  the  popular  rival 
and  through  unsuspected  ability  win  out.  The 
stupid  versus  the  clever,  the  younger  versus  the 
older,  the  teacher  versus  the  student,  all  sorts 
of  problems  and  struggles  come  to  mind  as  soon 
as  one  considers  the  general  state  of  the  boy  or 
the  girl  in  school.  Right  versus  wrong  usually 
underlies  these  struggles  though  the  problem  may 
manifest  itself  in  many  ways. 

The  college  story  teems  with  college  spirit 
against  which  disloyalty  is  held  as  a  cardinal  sin. 
This  strong  herd  spirit  pushes  itself  back  into  the 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES        77 

boarding  school  stories  for  younger  boys,  as  in 
the  story,  For  the  Honor  of  the  School,  by  Ralph 
Henry  Barbour,  or  Deering  of  Deal  by  Latta 
Griswold.  Grisvvold's  story  illustrates,  too,  the 
way  in  which  the  school  master  may  be  permitted 
to  partake  in  the  school  activities  as  a  friend 
rather  than  an  enemy. 

School  stories  which  have  a  setting  abroad  seem 
to  be  winning  a  place  in  the  favor  of  the  American 
reader.  The  boys  have  had  for  their  classic,  of 
course,  the  Tom  Brown  books,  and  Tom  Brown's 
School  Days  with  Tom  Brown  at  Rugby  have 
given  many  an  American  boy  an  honest  picture 
and  lasting  impression  of  English  school  life. 
Kipling's  Stalky  and  Co.  has  a  certain  realism  to 
which  some  parents  object,  but  Kipling  takes 
boys,  like  adults,  as  he  tinds  them.  The  school 
life  in  other  countries  than  England  has  been 
very  little  handled  as  material  which  the  Amer- 
ican boy  might  read.  Archag,  the  Little  Armen- 
ian by  C.  H.  Schnapps  gives  glimpses  of  the 
Armenian  boy  in  the  native  school,  but  the  story 
does  not  deal  primarily  with  school  life.  If  a 
writer  has  the  experiences  of  education  abroad 
in  a  boys'  school,  or  first  hand  contact  with  it, 
he  has  an  opportunity  to  make  a  real  contribution 
to  juvenile  fiction.  Since  the  war  the  interest  in 
matters  of  foreign  setting  and  action  is  no  longer 
confined  to  the  small  proportion  of  wealthy  chil- 
dren who  have  the  prospect  of  a  trip  abroad.  The 
father  of  any  child  may  have  been  a   soldier. 


78  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Europe  has  come  nearer  to  the  mind  of  youth 
than  geography  or  history  have  ever  brought  it. 
The  boy  and  the  girl  who  have  hstened  to  the 
foreign  tales  of  their  relatives  have  a  background 
of  perception  and  appreciation  of  stories  which 
will  coincide  more  directly  with  their  own  experi- 
ences. School  is  the  great  conmaon  experience  of 
youth.  Within  it  develop  the  great  common  char- 
acteristics of  youth.  And  youth  recognizes  them 
even  when  they  are  in  foreign  disguise.  Now 
when  the  disguise  itself  has  become  familiar, 
writers  should  take  advantage  of  the  increasing 
familiarity  and  interest  and  give  the  boys  and 
girls  their  own  material. 

The  girls  are  faring  better  than  the  boys  here. 
Angela  Brazil,  an  Englishwoman,  has  written  sev- 
eral books  of  English  school  life  which  are  enor- 
mously popular  in  England.  One  of  the  best  of 
these  is  A  Popular  School  Girl,  which,  while  it  has 
some  class  snobbery,  is  on  the  whole  mucli  like  its 
illustrations,  simple,  direct,  genuine,  and  limited 
to  school  situations  with  no  hint  of  outside  senti- 
mental complication. 

Katherine  Adams  in  Mehitahle  and  L.  S.  Porter 
in  Genevieve  both  deal  with  the  adventures  of 
the  j^oung  girl  in  the  Erench  school.  While 
the  emphasis  in  Mehitahle  is  on  American  charac- 
ters and  American  standards,  the  French  setting 
and  the  Erench  companions  serve  to  give  tlie  for- 
eign flavor  and  understanding  of  foreign  school 
customs  which  our  girls  want.     My  own  stories 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES        79 

of  college  life  in  Constantinople  where  all  races 
congregate  have  served  as  the  basis  for  the  ad- 
ventures of  different  representatives  of  these 
races  during  their  common  school  experience. 
Such  a  polytypic  school,  of  course,  affords  espe- 
cially rich  material  for  foreign  school  fiction. 

One  finds  a  small  amount  of  fiction  either  in 
books  or  short  story  form  which  deals  with  school 
stories  for  little  children.  In  the  form  of  the 
story  for  adults  about  children,  the  experiences 
of  the  beginner  in  school  serve  as  a  basis  of  some 
of  our  most  enlivening  and  enlightening  stories. 
The  Madness  of  Philip,  J.  D.  Daskam's  incom- 
parable satire  on  the  kindergarten,  Myra  Kelley's 
East  Side  school  stories,  Emmy  Lou,  make  di- 
verting and  profitable  reading  for  anyone  who 
has  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  feeling  of  responsi- 
bility toward  children. 

Stories  of  early  school  life  for  the  children 
themselves  are  scarce,  and  behind  their  scarcity 
may  lie  the  lack  of  a  demand  for  them.  To  chil- 
dren below  the  school  age,  school  stories  are  of  no 
use  since  they  have  as  yet  no  concepts  of  school 
experience  to  which  they  may  attach  the  new 
impressions.  To  children  who  are  just  going 
through  the  first  school  years,  the  experience 
often  seems  the  least  dramatic  and  interesting 
part  of  life.  They  are  not  yet  old  enough  to  be 
interested  in  school  ideals  and  problems,  and  the 
real  action  for  them  begins  when  school  is  out. 
They  are  just  at  the  age,  too,  when  they  are  be- 


80  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

ginning  to  have  the  forward  look  and  to  identify 
themselves  with  older,  more  powerful,  and  inter- 
esting beings.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  they 
may  not  care  much  to  read  about  their  own  state. 

The  kind  of  school  story  which  could  hold  and 
serve  the  younger  child  offers  an  intriguing  pos- 
sibility to  the  writer.  It  needs  careful  thought 
and  some  experimentation  with  young  children. 
If  one  of  their  favorite  games  is  'Splaying 
school,'^  school  ought  not  to  be  a  tabooed  subject 
in  their  stories. 

Once  the  writer  has  decided  on  the  plot  and 
theme  of  his  school  story,  he  would  do  well  to 
consider  carefully  the  question  of  scene  arrange- 
ment. His  particular  school  should  stand  out  as 
an  individual  school  with  its  own  peculiar  charac- 
teristics. Yet  he  by  no  means  wishes  to  attain 
this  effect  through  description  which  he  knows 
no  one  will  read.  First  he,  himself,  must  see  the 
school  clearly,  as  clearly  as  if  he  were  looking 
at  it  on  the  stage. 

Here,  as  in  most  scene  arrangement,  safety  lies 
in  the  direction  of  a  limited  number  of  scenes. 
If  the  writer  can  stage  his  action  for  a  short 
story  in  two  scenes  rather  than  six,  so  much  the 
better.  Sometimes  the  plot  demands  as  part  of 
its  expression  a  long  series  of  scenes.  For  ex- 
ample, A  Few  Diversions,  one  of  Miss  Daskam's 
Smith  College  Stories,  is  the  tale  of  a  girl  con- 
verted through  her  varied  experiences  to  a  belief 
in  the  variety  which  college  offers.     To  develop 


SCHOOL  OR   COLLEGE  STORIES        81 

the  theme  of  the  plot,  that  college  offers  versa- 
tility of  experience,  one  scene  rapidly  follows  an- 
other; house  party,  railroad  station,  Kingsley's, 
Ursula's  room,  golf  links,  Boyden's,  steps  of 
music  hall,  Boyden's  again,  the  lake,  senior  play, 
Ursula's  room,  parlor,  vespers,  drive  in  tally-ho, 
spread  in  girl's  room,  hotel  room.  One  has  only 
to  read  the  list  of  scenes  to  be  convinced  that  the 
point  is  proved. 

As  a  short  story,  however,  A  Few  Diversions 
is  not  so  dramatic  as  the  story  called  Emotions 
of  a  Suh  Guard,  which  uses  exactly  one  scene  for 
its  development.  But  the  reader  is  left  at  the 
end  of  it  with  a  vivid  impression  of  the  college 
gymnasium  during  a  basketball  game. 

When  the  writer  has  determined  the  scenes 
which  shall  make  the  setting  of  his  story,  he  is 
confronted  by  the  dilenuna  which  escapes  the 
dramatist,  of  how  to  make  his  reader  see  what 
he  sees  without  blocks  of  description.  Suppose 
he  arranges  his  scene  on  the  stage  of  his  mind 
and  stands  off  to  view  it.  How  does  the  thing 
make  him  feel?  If  it  affects  him,  what  about  it 
accomplishes  the  effect,  and  how  does  it  manifest 
itself  in  his  feelings?  Let  him  select  certain  de- 
tails of  his  scene  and  analyze  their  effect  on  him. 
Then  try  to  make  the  reader  feel  the  same  reac- 
tion toward  them. 

Theodora  looked  up  for  the  first  time  and  saw,  as  in 
a  dream,  individual  faces  and  clothes.  They  were 
packed  in  the  running-gallery  till  the  smallest  of  babies 


82  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

would  have  been  sorely  tried  to  find  a  crevice  to  rest  in. 
A  fringe  of  skirts  and  boots  hung  from  the  edge,  where 
the  wearers  sat  pressed  against  the  bars  with  their  feet 
hanging  over.  They  blotted  out  the  windows  and  sat 
out  on  the  great  beams,  dangling  their  banners  into 
space. 

She  found  a  crowd  of  jostling,  chattering  school  girls, 
unformed,  unpoised ;  many  of  them  vulgar,  many  stupid, 
many  ill-bred;  overflowing  a  damp,  cold  hall  that 
smelled  of  wet,  washed  floors ;  reciting,  in  a  very  average 
fashion,  perfectly  concrete  and  ordinary  lessons  from 
text  books  only  too  familiar,  to  business-like,  middle- 
aged  women,  rather  plain  than  otherwise,  with  a  prac- 
tical grasp  of  the  matter  in  hand  and  a  marked  pref- 
erence for  regular  attendance  on  the  part  of  freshmen. 

Compare  these  details  of  the  college  as  they 
impress  themselves  on  the  student  in  Miss  Dask- 
am's  Smith  College  Stories  with  the  following 
extract  from  Two  College  Girls,  by  Helen  Dawes 
Brown : 

The  long  shadows  of  the  June  sunset  lay  across  the 
lawns,  that  with  gentle  slope  and  undulation  stretched 
away  to  the  pines  on  one  side  and  down  to  the  glen  on 
the  other.  Everything  told  the  youth  of  summer:  the 
new  green  of  the  trees,  shading  away  from  the  soft  tints 
of  the  elms  to  the  sombre  depths  of  the  pines ;  the  fresh 
scents  of  the  wholesome  earth ;  the  good-night  twittering 
of  the  birds  as  they  made  haste  home  to  their  nests. 
There  were  other  unmistakable  signs  of  the  season, 
though  these  were  not  laid  down  on  the  almanac.  On 
the  circular  lawn  that  fonned  the  centre  of  the  garden, 
the  tennis  courts  were  already  established,  and  the  click 
of  croquet  balls  filled  the  air.     Outside  this  grass  plot 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES        83 

■were  flower  beds  in  three  coneentric  rings,  protected  by 
a  high  hedge  of  arbor  vitae.  The  large  beds  were  again 
divided 

and  so  on  for  a  hundred  words  more.  No  particu- 
lar detail  in  this  block  of  description  is  peculiar 
to  a  college  scene.  The  writer  aims  toward  such 
a  characterization  by  relating  later  the  activities 
of  the  girls.  No  detail  is  suggestive  of  an  effect 
on  anyone,  no  detail  is  essential  as  a  revelation 
of  the  place  to  the  reader. 

The  characterization  of  the  college  student  is 
the  next  problem  of  the  writer.  If  he  can  char- 
acterize his  college  he  can  probably  manage  the 
student.     Miss  Daskam  could: 

She  was  a  wholesome,  kindly  creature,  with  high  prin- 
ciples and  no  particular  waist  line.  She  drank  a  great 
deal  of  milk  and  was  a  source  of  great  relief  to  her 
teachers,  her  recitations  being  practically  perfect.  From 
her  sophomore  year  she  had  been  wildly,  if  solidly, 
addicted  to  zoology,  and  to  her,  after  hours  spent  in  the 
successful  chase  of  the  doomed  insect,  the  grasshopper 
was  literally  a  burden,  for  she  slew  him  by  the  basket- 
ful. She  rendered  the  surrounding  territory  frogless 
in  her  zeal  for  laboratory  practice,  and  in  her  senior 
year  it  was  rumored  that  stray  cats  fled  at  her  approach. 
"She'll  cut  me  up  in  my  sleep,"  said  Martha,  gloomily, 
**and  soak  me  in  formaline  in  the  bath  tub — the  idiot!" 

And  Miss  Brown  manages  her  student  much  as 
she  does  her  setting. 

Rosamond  stood  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  mantel,  and 
pulling  to  pieces  a  pink  rose  whose  petals  she  munched 


84  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

thoughtfully.  People  had  difficulty  in  determining 
whether  or  not  Rosamond  Mills  deserved  to  be  called  a 
pretty  pirl.  Some  were  shrewd  enough  to  discover  that 
the  matter  depended  almost  wholly  upon  her  dress. 
Frankly,  had  she  worn  limp  bro^vn  calico,  her  mouth 
would  have  been  large,  her  nose  not  aristocratic,  and 
her  elbows  prominent;  whereas  under  the  excitement  of 
a  becoming  pink  or  blue  her  color  deepened,  her  eyes 
sparkled,  and  her  fluffy  hair  was  a  prettier  gold  than 
ever.  .  .  . 

Writers,  fortunately,  are  beginning  to  realize 
that  it  is  not  the  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes  of  the 
heroine  which  are  interesting,  but  the  effect  which 
they  produce  on  beholders.  "By  their  deeds  ye 
shall  know  them,"  is  as  sound  in  fiction  as  in  fact. 
In  no  better  setting  is  revealing  action  afforded 
than  in  the  school  or  college. 

The  school  or  college  offers  itself  to  writers  as 
a  field  of  productive  possibilities  in  fiction.  Its 
resources,  far  from  being  exhausted,  have  in 
many  promising  portions  remained  almost  un- 
touched. School  is  a  permanent  part  of  life  for 
the  boy  and  girl ;  it  is  the  background  for  a  large 
proportion  of  their  experience ;  it  not  only  affords 
interest  while  they  are  in  its  grip,  but  sometimes 
even  more  regard  when  they  have  finished  with 
it.  For  many  years  it  more  or  less  regulates 
their  activities  by  its  demands  upon  them.  AAliile 
school  is  a  real  and  durable  factor,  it  is  by  no 
moans  an  unchanging  one.  The  modern  writer 
must  know  modern  school  activities;  his  own 
youthful  experience  is  not  sufficient.     Educative 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES        85 

processes  change  slowly  enough,  but  they  do 
change  and,  what  is  more  important  in  fiction,  the 
attitude  of  those  who  are  being  educated  changes 
toward  the  processes.  Herein  lies  one  difficulty 
at  least  with  girls'  stories.  The  modern  college 
girl  or  high  school  girl  or  boarding  school  girl  has 
not  been  dealt  with  fairly.  She  needs  represen- 
tation in  fiction  as  she  really  is  in  her  thought, 
feelings,  actions,  not  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  old  graduate,  or  the  tired  school  mistress,  or 
the  idealistic  lady  writer,  but  from  someone  who 
can  get  the  girl's  own  point  of  view  and  interpret 
it  to  herself.  AVriters  for  boys  have  handled 
school  material  with  a  sufficient  degree  of  success 
to  make  us  hopeful  that  writers  for  girls  will 
recognize  the  reality  of  theme  and  will  begin  to 
deal  with  it  honestly  and  adequately. 

SCHOOL,  COLLEGE  AND  HOME  STORIES 

Adams,  Katherine. 
Mehitable. 

Alcott,  L.  M. 
Little  Women. 

Barbour,  R.  H. 

For  the  Honor  of  the  School. 

Benson,  E.  F. 
David  Blaize. 

Brazil,  Angela. 

A  Popular  School  Girl. 

Burnett,  F.  H. 

The  Secret  Garden. 


86  JirV^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Canfield,  Dorothy. 
Understood  Betsy. 

CooLiDGE,  Susan. 

What  Katy  Did  at  ScJwol. 

Daskam,  Josephine  Dodge. 
Smith  College  Stories. 

Eggleston,  Edward. 

Hoosier  School  Boys. 

Griswold,  Latta. 
Deering  of  Deal. 

Heyliger,  William. 
High  Benton. 

Hughes,  Thomas. 

Tom  Brown's  School  Days, 
Tom  Brown  at  Bughy. 

Johnson,  Owen. 

Stover  at  Yale.  . 

Kipling,  Rudyard. 
Stalky  &  Co. 

Lee,  Jeanette. 

The  Rain-coat  Girl. 

Meigs,  Cornelia. 
Pool  of  Stars. 

Phelps,  E.  S. 

Gypsy's  Year  at  the  Golden  Crescent. 

Porter,  L.  S. 
Genevieve. 

Rankin,  Mrs.  Carroll  W. 
Dandelion  Cottage. 
Adopting  of  Rosa  Marie, 

Robinson,  Marel  L. 

Dr.  Tarn  O'Shanter. 


SCHOOL  OR  COLLEGE  STORIES       87 

Sidney,  Margaret. 

Five  Ldttle  Peppers. 

Five  Little  Peppers  at  School. 

SiNGMASTER,  ElSIE. 

WJien  Sarah  Saved  the  Day. 
When  Sarah  Went  to  School. 

Spyri,  J.  H. 
Heidi. 

Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery. 
Story  of  Babette. 

Taylor,  Katherine  H. 
Real  Stuff. 

Vaille,  Mrs.  C.  M. 
The  Orcutt  Girls. 

WiGGiN,  Kate  Douglass. 

Rebecca  of  Sunnybrook  Farm. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

The  Use  of  Detail 

Hugh  Lofting  in  an  article  on  books  for  chil- 
dren says:  "Another  outstanding  feature  of  most 
books  for  children  is  the  rigid  omission  of  detail. 
After  all,  it  is  detail  which  makes  fiction  con- 
vincing; and  no  one  loves  it,  in  pictures  as  well 
as  in  stories,  so  much  as  does  a  child."  If  Mr. 
Lofting 's  statement  needed  proof,  the  success  of 
his  own  inimitable  detail  in  the  pictures  and  story 
of  Dr.  Dolittle  w^ould  furnish  it. 

Children,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  find  in  detail  the 
nourishment  on  which  their  growing  minds  feed. 
Did  you  ever  try  the  experiment  of  showing  a 
young  child  a  wide  view?  He  looks  about  as  you 
bid  him,  is  interested  if  you  can  point  out  his  own 
liouse,  and  falls  to  picldng  the  daisies  at  his  feet 
while  he  waits  for  you  to  start  back.  The  ex- 
panse before  him  is  too  much  of  a  generalization 
for  his  present  state  of  development.  He  sees 
the  detail  which  he  knows,  just  as  a  dog  in  the 
same  situation  would  ignore  the  landscape  but 
concentrate  keenly  on  another  dog  barking  in  the 
valley. 

What  sort  of  things  does  a  baby  notice?    The 

88 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  89 

detail  closest  to  him.  He  reaches  for  his  mother's 
eye,  for  the  briglit  flower  on  the  window  sill  at 
his  elbow ;  but  he  does  not  admire  eyes  in  general 
nor  gardens  in  the  large.  The  baby  does  not 
change  all  at  once  into  a  detail-ignoring  young 
person.  When  the  little  girl  begins  to  notice  and 
express  the  effect  which  another  human  being 
makes  upon  her,  she  does  not  generalize  about  ap- 
pearances. Her  comment  is  not,  "Emily  is  beau- 
tiful," but,  "I  wish  I  had  curls  like  hers."  The 
half-grown  boy  can  give  the  most  minute  details 
of  any  machine  or  instrument  in  which  he  is 
really  interested. 

Gradually  from  infancy  the  child  grows  to  in- 
clude more  details  within  the  scope  of  his  inter- 
ests, but  details  are  still  what  he  is  after. 
Through  them  he  is  getting  his  experience  with 
life.  "While  they  are  new  he  is  most  absorbed  in 
them.  He  puts  all  of  his  senses  on  the  job.  He 
may  not  see  large  views  but  his  eyes  are  serving 
him  every  minute  they  are  open  in  his  collection 
of  visual  detail.  He  tastes,  he  smells,  he  listens, 
he  feels,  he  is  greedy  for  experience  with  life. 
But  of  all  his  senses,  his  sight  is  the  only  one 
which  he  is  allowed  to  use  freely.  Of  them  all, 
it  is  the  only  one  which  is  in  a  way  passive.  He 
runs  no  risks,  in  looking  at  things,  of  the  inner 
discomfort  which  tasting  may  bring,  of  the  an- 
noyance to  elders  which  hearing  his  own  noises 
may  bring,  of  the  burned  fingers  and  scraped 
shins  which  feeling  may  bring,  of  the  destruction 


90  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

to  fragile  objects  which  the  close  proximity  neces- 
sary for  smelling  may  bring.  No  one  tells  him 
not  to  look  at  things.  *'You  may  look  but  you 
may  not  touch,  may  not  smell,  may  not  taste, 
etc.,"  is  a  rule  with  which  he  becomes  familiar 
in  his  earliest  explorations.  By  the  time  he  is 
grown  is  it  any  wonder  that  the  adult  sense  upon 
which  he  depends  is  his  sight?  That  his  other 
senses  have  atrophied  into  a  condition  of  dullness, 
of  vagueness,  which  makes  him  scarcely  conscious 
of  them  most  of  the  time?  Some  day,  when 
schools  believe  that  part  of  their  function  lies  in 
teaching  us  how  to  keep  alive,  children  will  be 
trained  to  cultivate  their  senses.  A  full  use  of 
these  avenues  of  approach  to  life  might  serve  a 
man  as  well  as  his  multiplication  tables. 

The  reason  why  children  demand  illustrations 
for  their  stories  is  based  upon  their  hunger  for 
details.  They  pore  over  the  pictures  to  supply 
themselves  with  the  important  particulars  which 
the  author  has  neglected  to  mention.  They  have 
not  had  experience  enough  themselves  on  which 
to  build  the  new  conceptions.  They  need  guides. 
We  elders,  who  no  longer  have  much  of  any 
stimulus  toward  curiosity  from  our  dulled  senses, 
and  who  feel,  quite  justly  sometimes,  that  our 
own  experience  can  construct  for  us  a  more  ade- 
quate picture  than  that  furnished  by  the  illustra- 
tor, are  more  often  than  not  relieved  by  lack  of 
pictures.  The  child,  never.  He  may  not  like  the 
kind  of  pictures  which  the  illustrator  has  given 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  91 

him,  but  he  likes  them  better  than  nothing.  They 
give  him  detail. 

What  do  we  as  adults  demand  of  a  stage  set- 
ting? Enough  realistic  detail  to  make  us  believe 
in  the  truth  of  the  play.  The  play  must  be  made 
to  seem  authentic  by  surrounding  it  with  a  con- 
vincing environment.  The  designer  of  the  stage 
setting  takes  utmost  care  to  select  telling  details 
for  his  scenes.  Though  limited  largely  to  an 
appeal  to  the  sense  of  sight,  he  stimulates  the 
other  senses  whenever  possible.  The  sounds  of 
the  wind  whistling,  the  thunder  rolling,  the  voices 
off  stage,  a  rooster  crowing,  a  man  whistling, 
vicarious  taste  as  the  audience  watches  the  actors 
eat  real  food;  these  two  senses  are  called  upon 
often  to  persuade  the  audience  of  the  reality  of 
the  situation.  If  the  designer  could  only  get  the 
smell  of  freshly  baked  bread  or  cookies  over  the 
footlights,  he  might  score  another  point.  These 
appeals  to  the  imagination  all  aim  to  heighten 
the  emotional  reaction  of  the  audience,  to  put 
them  in  a  mood  in  which  the  play  will  strike 
home  as  the  playwright  intended,  to  start  asso- 
ciations in  desirable  directions.  See  how  easily 
a  misplaced  detail  will  ruin  an  effect;  a  stray  cat 
wanders  across  the  stage  in  the  middle  of  an 
impassioned  plea  of  the  hero,  the  revolver  which 
was  to  shoot  the  villain  refuses  to  go  off.  Noth- 
ing can  prevent  the  audience  from  watching  the 
cat  or  from  suspecting  the  villain  to  be  still  alive. 

In  earlier  days,  as  in  the  movies  now,  a  type 


92  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

drawing-room,  library,  or  kitchen  sufficed.  Now 
the  scene  designer  works  for  a  room  which  will 
express  the  individuality  of  its  owner,  which  will 
add  to  the  illusion  of  reality  of  the  characters  in 
their  particular  situation.  And  the  movement  is 
in  the  right  direction.  An  assembling  of  details 
which  gives  the  audience  a  sense  of  being  at  one 
with  the  situation  as  soon  as  the  curtain  goes  up 
has  gone  far  to  help  the  playwright  out  in  the 
theme. 

The  most  modern  designers  attempt  to  use  sug- 
gestion rather  than  the  Belasco  method  of  exact 
imitation.  They  choose  a  few  significant  details 
and  construct  the  scene  on  that  basis.  The  fog 
scene  in  Anna  Christie  carries  with  it  complete 
illusion.  One  can  almost  smell  the  fog,  feel  its 
dampness,  hear  it  drip  on  the  deck.  The  manage- 
ment of  the  detail  is  a  triumphant  illustration  of 
the  power  of  the  selected  significant  details  to 
construct  a  situation.  The  writer  does  well  to 
note  that  faithfulness  of  cataloguing  is  often  not 
so  effective  as  this  kind  of  suggestion. 

Good  fiction  detail  is  much  like  good  stage  de- 
tail. Its  function  is  to  convince.  Its  source  is  in 
the  experience  of  the  writer.  Its  value  depends 
upon  his  skill  in  selection  and  his  vividness  in 
expression.  The  beginner  at  writing  would  like 
In  know  if  he  has  any  of  these  qualifications  and 
i  f  ho  can  develop  them  into  more  active  service. 

The  first  requisite  is  to  take  an  account  of 
stock,  to  find  out  just  how  well  developed  at  the 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  93 

present  moment  are  the  senses  and  the  power 
to  use  them.  The  following  mental  imagery  tests 
should  help  a  person  to  decide  some  of  these  ques- 
tions. 

1.  Think  of  your  breakfast  table  as  you  sat 
down  to  it  this  morning;  call  up  the  appearance 
of  the  table,  the  dishes  and  the  food  on  it,  the 
persons  present,  etc. 

Then  write  answers  to  the  follomng  questions : 

Are  the   outlines  of  the  objects  distinct  and 

sharp?    Are  the  colors  bright  and  natural?    How 

does  the  size  of  the  image  compare  with  the  actual 

size  of  the  scene? 

2.  Can  you  call  to  mind  better  the  face  or  the 
voice  of  a  friend? 

3.  When  '* violin"  is  suggested,  do  you  think 
first  of  the  appearance  of  the  instrument  or  the 
sounds  made  when  it  is  played? 

4.  (a)  Can  you  call  to  mind  natural  scenery  so 
that  it  gives  you  pleasure?  (b)  Music?  (c)  The 
taste  of  fruit?    (d)  The  odor  of  flowers? 

The  next  test  is  for  power  and  quickness  of  as- 
sociation, for  consciousness  of  association,  and 
for  keenness  of  one  sense  over  another.  Write 
down  the  three  headings.  Take  down  the  first 
object,  fill  out  under  the  second  column  the  asso- 
ciation which  the  word  brings  up  immediately  in 
your  mind.     In  the  third  column  note  the  sense 


94  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

whicli  was  stimulated  to  give  the  association. 
For  instance,  the  word  rose  might  call  to  mind  the 
sight,  the  smell,  or  the  feeling  of  the  rose.  Leave 
a  blank  if  you  do  not  get  an  actual  association  at 
once.  Do  not  use  unparticularized  associations 
such  as  violets — spring;  or  conventional  associa- 
tions such  as  tuberose — funeral. 


OBJECT  ASSOCIATION  SENSE 

Warm  pine  needles  Camp  in  Maine  Smell 

Fxeshly  ground  coffee 

Wet  pavements  reflecting  light 

Violets 

Sleigh  bells 

Newly  sawed  lumber 

Licorice 

Picture  of  George  Washington 

Varnish 

Fog  horn 

Pussy  willow 

Hot  tar 

Church  bells 


The  variety  of  associations  which  one  word 
may  suggest  is  illustrated  by  the  following  which 
came  from  one  class  in  response  to  the  word 
varnish:  Floors,  paint-shop,  overalls,  library  with 
rug  rolled  up,  dead  canaries,  moving  day,  drug 
store  where  I  worked,  my  Dinah  doll,  canoe,  two 
chairs,  ship  at  sea,  stairs  at  home,  house  clean- 
ing, golden  oak  furniture,  new  house,  sliding  in 
dance  hall,  Christmas  day. 

Make  fresh  headings  of  Object,  Association, 
Sense.  P'ill  out  for  yourself  as  many  objects  with 
associations  as  suggest  themselves  in  five  minutes. 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL 


95 


Restate  the  following  generalizations  in  con- 
crete terms: 


GENERALIZATION 
Example 
It  was  hot 


CONCRETE    DETAILS 

White   glaring  sky 

Motionless    leaves 

Clouds  of  (lust  along  country 

roails 
Dogs  panting  in  shade 
Smell  of  hot  tar  from  walks 
Smell  of  dank  air  from  cellar 
Crowds  around  soda  fountain 
Horses   wearing    straw    hats 
Feeling  of  pounding  pulse  in 

head 
Feeling  of  damp  clothes 
Feeling  of  parched  throat 
Sound  of  locusts 
Silence  of  birds 
Wail  of  babies 
Whirs  of  electric  fang,  etc. 

It  was  cold 

The   kitchen  was  always  un- 
tidy 

Jolin    found    his    new    book 
uninteresting 

Elsie   was   a   pretty   girl 

The  children  got  very  tired 

The  city  was  noisy 

Employ  as  many  senses  as  possible  in  the  ex- 
pression of  your  concrete  terms.  AVlien  you  have 
finished  the  exercise,  cheek  up  the  senses  which 
you  have  used.  Note  which  one  you  depend  upon 
chiefly.  Continue  the  exercise,  supplying  your 
own  material  until  you  find  that  you  have  formed 
the  habit  of  observing  in  concrete  detail. 

The  material  of  the  following  exercise  which 
was  designed  for  a  New  York  class  can  be  easily 
replaced  by  local  equivalents. 


96  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Try  using  one  sense  only  for  accounts  of  the 
following;  to  develop  the  other  senses,  eliminate 
details  of  sight,  using  only  details  of  sound, 
touch,  or  smell : 

Ferry  boat  coming  into  slip. 
Fifth  Avenue  at  sunset. 
Shuttle  at  5.30  p.m. 
Child's  restaurant  at  noon. 

Columbia  University  reading-room  in  library  just  be- 
fore mid-year  examination. 

Mood  is  an  influential  factor  in  the  determina- 
tion of  what  a  person  sees  and  hears.  Consider 
the  difference  in  the  details  which  would  impress 
you  on  a  subway  trip  if,  first,  you  were  on  your 
way  to  an  editor  who  had  just  accepted  your 
story;  or,  if,  second,  you  were  going  to  get  the 
story  because  it  had  been  pronounced  worthless. 

Physical  condition  is  equally  important  in  the 
selective  process  of  our  senses.  The  sight  of  a 
good  dinner  affects  very  differently  the  person 
who  is  suffering  from  indigestion  and  the  hungry 
boy.  Remember  Mr.  Polly  on  his  stile  after  his 
mixed  pickles  and  cold  suet  pudding. 

He  sat  on  the  stile,  and  looked  with  eyes  that  seemed 
blurred  with  impalpable  flaws  at  a  world  in  whicli  even 
the  spring  birds  were  wilted,  the  sunlight  metallic,  and 
the  shadows  mixed  with  blue  ink.  .  .  . 

T  flo  7iot  know  why  the  east  wind  aggravates  life  to 
unhealthy  pcoi)le.  It  made  Mr.  Polly's  teeth  seem  loose 
in  his  head,  and  his  skin  feel  like  a  misfit,  and  his  hair 
a  dry  stringy  exasperation. 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  97 

The  beginner  needs  to  differentiate  between  the 
pathetic  fallacy  and  choice  of  detail  which  is  given 
as  it  actually  appears  to  the  observer  under  certain 
circumstances.  Kain  and  howling  wind  are  not 
necessarily  correlated  with  distress  of  mind.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  sunshine  and  gentle  breezes  are 
more  powerful  in  their  ironical  contrast  to  bring 
out  the  unhappiness  of  the  observer.  But  this 
point  of  choice  of  detail  which  will  express  the 
mood  or  physical  condition  of  the  person  is  rather 
different.  The  external  situation  presents  ex- 
actly the  same  aspect  no  matter  what  the  state 
of  the  observer.  His  mind  attends  to  the  selective 
process  which  goes  on  all  the  time.  If  he  is  com- 
ing down  with  a  bad  cold,  his  senses  are  directed 
to  the  observation  of  the  irritating  details  only 
of  the  situation.  If  he  has  just  had  a  good  dinner 
with  a  stimulating  companion,  he  is  unaware  of 
the  influenza-colored  details  and  selects  instead 
those  which  correlate  with  a  contented  stomach 
and  stimulated  mind.  The  writer  needs  to  make 
use  of  such  simple  pyschology  in  his  search  for 
reality.  The  mind  or  physical  condition  may  be 
strong  enough  to  serve  as  a  motive  for  important 
action.  Note  how  skilfully  Dorothy  Canfield 
relates  the  action  of  "Understood  Betsy"  first 
to  her  state  of  physical  under-development  and 
mental  terrors,  and  then  to  her  health  and  sta- 
bility. 

The  following  exercise  may  help  the  writer: 
Compare  the  effect  of  your  own  room,  (1)  when 


98  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

you  are  in  bed  with  a  severe  illness;  (2)  when 
yon  have  waked  up  from  a  refreshing  Sunday 
morning  nap.  Or  again:  (1)  Of  a  trip  on  the 
train,  in  answer  to  an  alarming  telegram;  and 
(2)  of  the  return  trip  when  all  anxiety  has  been 
removed. 

Certain  phrases  or  combinations  of  words  have 
become  so  associated  with  the  thing  which  they 
describe  that  they  form  a  pattern  by  which  the 
observer  cuts  out  his  actual  observation.  That 
is,  he  not  only  uses  accepted  terms  in  his  speech 
and  writing,  but  he  sees  things  in  accepted  terms. 
Blue  waters  dance,  skyscrapers  tower,  crowds 
surge,  noises  roar,  odors  sicken  or  refresh,  etc. 
He  wishes  a  handsome  hero  for  his  story  and  he 
at  once  sees  the  clean-cut  college  youth;  or  he 
needs  a  beautiful  heroine  and  supplies  his  want 
with  the  peculiar  type  demanded  by  the  times. 

Ready-made  phrasing  has  been  handed  out  to 
children,  often  because  the  writer  himself  was 
unaware  of  the  tailored  variety,  sometimes  be- 
cause the  writer  believed  that  the  ready-made 
would  be  much  more  likely  to  fit  any  and  every 
child,  or  that  children  are  unconscious  anyway 
of  the  niceties  of  careful  workmanship.  Again 
children  have  brought  this  state  of  affairs  upon 
themselves  by  their  insatiable  hunger  for  stories. 
If  they  will  read  the  stories  anyway,  why  this 
concern'?  The  answer,  of  course,  depends  upon 
just  wliat  the  writer  wants  to  do.  If  he  wishes 
to  record  beauty  and  truth  in  a  permanent  form 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  99 

for  the  children,  he  must  develop  his  own  peculiar 
sensitivity  to  impressions. 

While  illustrations  of  this  power  of  individual 
observation  and  expression  are  easy  to  find  in 
books  for  adults,  like  Main  Street,  Eric  Dorn, 
Miss  Lulu  Bctt,  Katherine  Mansfield's  stories, 
and  in  much  other  adult  fiction,  it  is  an  indict- 
ment against  our  juvenile  literature  that  illustra- 
tions there  must  be  sought  with  diligence  and 
patience. 

Kipling's  details,  whether  he  is  writing  for 
adults  or  for  children,  are  always  his  own,  drawn 
from  his  experience,  given  as  they  impressed  him. 
In  the  following  description  of  the  bazaars,  from 
Kim,  note  the  details  of  sound  as  well  as  of  sight ; 
note  the  activity  of  the  description — not  a  passive 
detail. 

The  hot  and  crowded  bazaars  blazed  with  light  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  press  of  all  the  races  in 
Upper  India,  and  the  lama  mooned  through  it  like  a 
man  in  a  dream.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  a  large 
city,  and  the  sight  of  the  crowded  tram-car  with  its 
continually  squeaking  brakes  frightened  him.  .  .  .  Here 
were  all  manner  of  Northern  folk,  tending  tethered 
ponies  and  kneeling  camels ;  loading  and  unloading  bales 
and  bundles;  drawing  water  for  the  evening  meal  at 
the  creaking  well  windlasses;  ])iling  grass  before  the 
shrieking  wild  eyed  stallions;  cuffing  the  surly  caravan 
dogs;  paying  off  camel  drivers;  taking  on  new  grooms; 
swearing,  shouting,  arguing,  and  cliaffering  in  the 
packed  square. 

In  Dr.  Dolittle  the  chapter  about  the  voyage  to 


100  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Africa  gives  in  detail  the  effect  of  the  weather 
on  the  animals. 

As  they  sailed  further  and  further  into  the  South,  it 
got  warmer  and  warmer.  Polynesia,  Chee-Chee,  and 
the  crocodile  enjoyed  the  hot  sun  no  end.  They  ran 
about  laughing  and  looking  over  the  side  of  the  ship  to 
see  if  they  could  see  Africa  yet. 

But  the  pig  and  the  dog  and  the  owl,  Too-Too,  could 
do  nothing  in  such  weather,  but  sat  at  the  end  of  the 
ship  in  the  shade  of  a  big  barrel  with  their  tongues 
hanging  out,  drinking  lemonade. 

Dab-Dab,  the  duck,  used  to  keep  himself  cool  by 
jumping  into  the  sea  and  swimming  behind  the  ship. 
And  every  once  in  a  while,  when  the  top  of  her  head 
got  too  hot,  she  would  dive  under  the  ship  and  come  up 
on  the  other  side.  In  this  way,  too,  she  used  to  catch 
herrings  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays,  when  everybody  on 
the  boat  ate  fish  to  make  the  beef  last  longer.^ 

Note  the  effect  of  the  choice  of  drink  for  the 
animals,  of  the  selection  of  exact  days  for  fish, 
etc.  Contradictorily  enough,  the  reality  heightens 
the  absurdity.  Mr.  Lofting  makes  any  situation 
gravely  possible  by  his  choice  of  details.  His 
drawing  of  the  horse  having  his  eyes  tested  sug- 
gests all  the  paraphernalia  of  an  oculist's  office 
by  the  lettered  chart  and  the  extra  pair  of  spec- 
tacles on  the  stool.  The  horse  staring  through 
spectacles  at  the  letter  which  Dr.  Dolittle  indi- 
cates  suggests   the   whole   process   of   the   eye- 

•  Rcprintecl  by  permiasion  from  The  Stori)  of  Dr.  Dolittle,  by 
Hugh  Lofting.    Copyright  1920,  by  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


THE  USE  OF  DETAIL  101 

examination.    In  his  illustrations  as  in  his  writ- 
ing, Mr.  Lofting  is  a  selective  genius. 

In  the  following  sentences  from  "Eben's 
Cows,"  of  the  Here  and  Now  Story  Book,  notice 
the  different  senses  which  are  appealed  to  in  the 
picture  of  the  barn. 

The  two  children  peered  into  the  big  dark  barn.  The 
unmistakable  cow-smell  came  to  them  strong  in  the  dark. 
Stretching  down  the  whole  length  was  stall  after  stall, 
each  holding  an  impatient  cow.  The  children  could  see 
the  restless  hind  feet  moving  and  stamping;  they  could 
see  the  flicking  of  many  tails;  they  could  feel  the 
cows  pulling  at  the  stanchions.  On  the  other  side 
were  the  stalls  of  the  Little  Sisters — (calves).  They 
too  were  moving  about  wildly.  Over  above  it  all  rose 
the  deafening  sound  of  the  plaintive  lowings, 

Beatrix  Potter,  in  The  Tailor  of  Gloucester, 
has  given  the  kind  of  detail  which  children  like 
to  quote. 

Simpkins  opened  the  door  and  bounced  in  with  an 
angry  " Gr-r-r-miaw ! "  like  a  cat  that  is  vexed;  for  he 
hated  the  snow,  and  there  was  snow  in  his  collar  at  the 
back  of  his  neck.  He  put  dowTi  the  loaf  and  the  saus- 
ages upon  the  dresser  and  sniffed.  .  .  .  "Oh,  dilly,  dilly, 
dilly!"  sighed  Simpkins. 

The  effect  of  the  concrete  detail  in  Heidi  is  to 
give  the  reader  a  picture  of  Alps  and  Alpine  life 
such  as  few  adult  books  have  achieved.  Yet  as 
is  often  the  case  with  translations,  the  specific 
details  are  stiffened  and  conventionalized  by  their 
exchange  from  one  language  into  the  other.    In 


102  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

spite  of  this  drawback,  Heidi  is  full  of  color  and 
vivid  life.  It  is  one  of  the  imperishable  books 
of  childhood. 

Poetry  has  much  to  contribute  to  the  art  of 
writing  prose  in  vivid  detail.  An  essential  qual- 
ity of  good  verse  is  its  clear  definite  concentra- 
tion. Mother  Goose  rhymes  are  exact  in  their  ex- 
pression, particular  in  their  images.  The  injuries 
of  Jack  and  Jill  were  healed  by  vinegar  and 
brown  paper.  Little  Miss  Moffet  ate  curds  and 
whey.  The  House  That  Jack  Built  is  a  gradual 
accumulation  of  details. 

Walter  de  la  Mare  in  his  collection  of  verses 
called  Peacock  Pie  writes  with  exactness,  humor, 
and  charm  of  children's  affairs. 

POOR    HENRY 

Thick  in  its  glass 

The  physic  stands, 
Poor  Henry  lifts  ' 

Distracted  hands; 
His  round  cheek  wans 

In  the  candle  light, 
To  smell  that  smell 

And  see  that  sight! 
Finger  and  thiimh 

Clinch    his    small    nose, 
A  gurgle,  a  gasp, 

And  down  it  goes; 
Scowls  Henry  now; 

But  mai'k  that  cheek. 
Sleek  with  the  bloom 

Of  health  next  week! 


THE  USE   OF  DETAIL  103 

Kobert  Louis  Stevenson  speaks  of  the  cold 
wind  that  *' burns  my  face  and  blows  its  frosty- 
pepper  up  my  nose."  And  of  the  summer  sun, 
which, 

Though  closer  still  the  blinds  we  pull 
To  keep  the  shady  parlor  cool, 
Yet  he  will  find  a  chink  or  two 
To  slip  his  golden  fingers  through. 

Poetry  written  for  children  may  serve  as  a 
stimulus  to  a  writer  in  its  collection  of  imagery 
supposed  to  be  suitable  for  the  child's  mind.  But 
for  practice  in  the  use  of  the  exact  word  instead 
of  the  vague  or  decorative  phrase,  writers  should 
read  from  poets  like  Robert  Frost,  Richard  Al- 
dington, H.  D.,  Carl  Sandburg,  if  they  care  for 
modern  poetry;  any  real  poet  furnishes  illustra- 
tion of  this  point. 

The  writer  in  his  earnest  desire  to  express  an 
effect  often  seizes  upon  modifiers  for  his  instru- 
ment. He  relies  upon  adjectives  and  adverbs  to 
such  an  extent  that  they  form  a  considerable  pro- 
portion of  his  text.  A  good  exercise  is  to  go 
through  a  finished  story  underlining  each  modi- 
fier. In  a  juvenile  story,  very  should  be  under- 
lined twice,  and  little  three  times.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  manuscript  will  lie  sufficient  comment. 
Let  the  nouns  and  verbs  do  more  work.  Their 
power  of  suggestion,  their  innate  force,  are  weak- 
ened by  the  smothering  effect  of  modifiers.  Only 
when  you  have  exhausted  the  potentiality  of  your 


104  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

strong  foundation  word,  need  yon  consider  bol- 
stering it  up  with  modifiers.  And  by  that  time, 
you  will  probably  have  attained  your  effect  with- 
out them. 

In  the  following  lists,  the  first  column  consists 
of  simple  nouns  and  verbs  which  have  in  them- 
selves the  power  to  suggest.  They  are  chosen 
with  a  view  to  their  suitability  for  juvenile  writ- 
ing. The  second  column  gives  the  equivalent  of 
the  single  word  in  modified  words.  A  brief  trial 
in  sentences  of  the  concrete  word  and  the  modi- 
fied word  mil  convince  the  writer  of  the  weaken- 
ing effect  of  the  modifiers : 

Mumble  speak  thickly 

Snivel     lament  whiningly 

Whack     a  resounding  blow 

Brawl    quarrel  noisily 

Bungle     clumsy  performance 

Chuckle    suppressed  laughter 

Gang    intimate    companions 

Grudge    sullen  malice 

Gulp     swallow  eagerly 

Hodge-podge    a  great  variety 

Inkling    a  slight  knowledge 

Makeshift    temporary  arrangement 

Nudge    a   gentle   ])ush ;    push   gently 

Plod     walk   slowly 

Eomp     boisterous  rough  play 

Scrawl      careless   hasty   writing 

Scuffle    rough  struggle 

Shred     a  long  narrow  fragment 

Tang    a  sharp   specific   flavor 

Tussle    a  hard  struggle 

Uproar     great  noise 

Flickor     a  faint  unsteady  light 

Jcor      speak  scofTirgly 

•Tolt     shake  irregularly 

Hciivo     lift  with  (lifTicul'ty 

Spurt     run    fast    for    a    short    time 

Shamble    walk    unsteadily 


THE  USE   OF   DETAIL  105 

The  writer  who  struggles  for  uniqueness  of 
phrasing,  merely,  will  inevitably  fall  into  fine 
writing.  But  his  empty  phrases  will  never 
trouble  the  children  because  they  will  never  read 
them.  If,  however,  the  writer  is  after  vividness 
of  experience,  his  style  will  improve  because  he 
is  working  for  the  exact  phrase  which  will  ex- 
press the  thing  he  wishes  to  say.  He  sees,  feels, 
listens,  borrowing  the  only  method  by  which 
experience  is  gained,  that  of  concrete  sense 
stimuli.  The  discretion  of  his  sharpened  senses 
in  receiving  impressions  heightens  his  discretion 
in  selecting  significant  details  to  give  back  to  his 
readers.  He  realizes  that  generalizations  have  no 
imaginative  power  either  for  him  or  for  them; 
that  faithful  cataloging  of  details  which  anybody 
might  observe  is  deadening  both  to  writer  and 
readers;  and  that  the  only  salvation  for  him  or 
his  book  lies  in  his  capacity  to  select  that  which 
holds  an  imaginative  appeal  and  to  present  it  in 
simple,  concrete  form.  Words  are  but  a  means 
to  an  end,  and  without  the  end  they  are  empty. 
Fitness  of  style  arises  from  the  union  of  its  com- 
ponents, sincerity,  emotion,  and  accurate  sense  of 
the  thing  to  be  said.  Nobody  recognizes  the  ulti- 
mate perfection  resulting  from  these  essentials 
more  quickly  than  the  child.  His  native  sincerity 
meets  yours,  he  responds  to  your  emotion,  he 
adopts  for  his  own  your  apt  expression.  He  is 
unable  to  analyze  the  reasons,  but  he  is  one  with 
you.    Your  book  is  a  success. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Chaeacterization 

The  previous  chapter  on  concrete  detail  was 
devoted  largely  to  the  consideration  of  the  choice 
of  material  from  the  principle  of  interest.  To 
gain  the  young  reader's  interest  in  our  story,  we 
need  to  give  him  reality,  concreteness,  signifi- 
cance, not  alone  in  the  details  but  in  the  funda- 
mental substance  of  the  story.  The  details  are 
the  brushstrokes  by  means  of  which  we  set  the 
picture  on  the  canvas.  Action  and  characters 
make  the  picture  we  work  to  present.  Never  can 
the  writer  escape  from  the  problem  of  character- 
ization, once  he  engages  himself  in  this  business 
of  story  writing.  For  his  basic  material  is  al- 
ways and  inevitably  the  conduct  of  people,  the 
actions  of  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women,  chil- 
dren. Animals,  you  say?  Even  there,  the  writer 
handles  his  material  in  terms  of  characterization; 
he  interprets  the  animals  in  human  terms ;  he  at- 
tempts to  individualize  the  dog  and  the  horse  of 
his  story.  People,  animals  acting  as  people, 
insects — the  writer  can  in  no  possible  way  escape 
this  absohite  necessity  in  story  writing.  If  he 
tackles  a  story  of  an  inanimate  object,  like  the 

106 


CHARACTERIZATION  107 


j» 


old  ''autobiop^raphy  of  a  penny,  or  a  clothos  pin,' 
which  we  were  urged  to  write  for  the  third  grade 
English  lesson,  oven  there  he  must  personify  the 
object,  or,  in  brief,  treat  it  as  a  character. 

This  condition  being  true,  the  business  of  char- 
acterization takes  a  place  of  importance  in  the 
technique  of  fiction  writing.  Plot  itself  is  easily 
seen  as  a  version  of  characterization,  since  it  is 
merely  the  conduct  of  the  characters  of  the  story 
in  whatever  ticklish  place  the  writer  has  managed 
to  set  them.  And  conduct,  as  we  shall  see,  is  the 
highest  type  of  characterization. 

The   term   characterization  means  briefly  the 
setting  of  people  in  the  story  with  a  sufficient 
degree  of  visibility  and  plausibility  so  that  they 
may  for  the  reader  emerge  from  the  flat  page  as 
more  than  shadowy  names,  and  possess,  for  the 
time  at  least,  the  rudiments  of  personality.    Since 
action  cannot  take  place  on  fiction  grounds  without 
people,  the  moment  that  action  starts,  character- 
ization starts.    Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  the  people 
of  the  story  stay  flat  and  two-dimensional  upon 
the  printed  page,  never  rising  into  reality.    They 
are  merely  names,  or  types  of  story  people :  vil- 
lians,  heroes,  and  princesses  without  individual- 
ity.   But  to  the  degree  that  the  characters  pos- 
sess individuality,  just  to  that  degree  also  may 
the  story  gain  originality  and  personal  flavor,  to 
say  nothing  of  reality  and  conviction.     In  the 
matter    of   improved   character   drawing    rather 
than  in  the  matter  of  pure  plot,  lies  much  of  the 


108         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

change  in  fiction  writing  during  the  last  fifty 
years,  in  juvenile  quite  as  much  as  in  adult  stories. 
The  dismaying  statements  that  the  few  possible 
plots  have  all  been  written  may  have  less  discour- 
agement for  the  beginner  if  he  once  realizes  that 
while  formal  plans  for  action  may  be  few,  the 
variety  in  character  is  infinite,  and  that  character 
combined  with  old  story  plans  often  is  the  source 
of  that  desirable  quality,  originality. 

Characterization  in  fiction  may  run  the  gamut 
of  all  the  differences  between  a  mere  statement 
that  John  is  a  bad  boy  because  he  spills  his  soup, 
and  the  intricate  analysis  of  motive  in  modern 
realism.  The  latter  type  of  characterization, 
naturally,  has  no  place  in  juvenile  writing.  The 
first  type,  the  unqualified  statement,  may  fre- 
quently have  place  in  the  story  for  the  young 
child.  For  characterization,  like  plot,  varies  with 
the  age  of  the  child  for  whom  the  story  is  in- 
tended, and  must  attempt  to  approximate  the 
child's  own  possibility  of  recognition  of  motives 
and  qualities.  But  only  for  the  very  tiny  child 
need  a  character  be  nothing  but  a  name ;  children 
begin  earlier  than  their  elders  like  to  think  to 
appreciate  human  qualities,  and  they  begin  by 
the  same  token  to  enjoy  some  presence  of  human 
qualities  in  their  fiction. 

There  is,  then,  a  gradual  development  of  the 
amount  of  characterization  necessary  in  the  story 
for  the  child,  a  development  which  at  the  upper 
level  of  the  juvenile  story  slips  into  the  require- 


CHARACTERIZATION  109 

ments  of  adult  fiction.  The  greatest  difference 
anywhere  along  this  rising  curve  is  perhaps  a  dif- 
ference in  the  amount  of  simplification  necessary 
for  the  young  child.  Some  simplification  of  char- 
acter is  always  required  in  the  short  story,  since 
the  aim  of  the  story  is  for  a  single  effect,  and 
the  quality  of  the  hero  which  bears  upon  that 
effect  is  the  quality  which  must  be  stressed.  This 
statement  does  not  mean  that  the  hero  must  be 
ironed  out  into  a  character  like  those  in  the  old 
Miracle  pla5''s,  merely  personifications  of  abstract 
qualities;  it  means  rather  that  out  of  the  many 
contradictory  impulses  which  a  person  in  real  life 
seems  to  possess,  the  writer  must  choose  those 
which  serve  his  story  end. 

Characterization  is,  after  all,  the  application  of 
directed,  penetrating  detail  to  a  particular  end. 
The  value  of  concrete  detail  is  never  better  illus- 
trated than  in  its  effect  of  making  a  fiction  char- 
acter a  real  person.  The  hero  takes  on  reality 
only  as  the  writer  builds  him  up  by  the  choice 
of  significant  detail  about  his  appearance,  speech, 
conduct.  Then  in  turn  the  hero  gives  life  to  the 
story  because  his  individuality  has  a  plausible 
connection  with  the  plot.  The  reality  of  the 
whole  story  is  tied  up  with  the  reader's  feeling 
that  the  people  in  it  ivould  do  the  things  which 
the  writer  has  them  do.  In  life  a  person  has 
many  contradictory  impulses,  at  least  on  a  sur- 
face inspection  of  his  moods  and  action.  Put 
him  into  a  story,  and  those  impulses,  instead  of 


110  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

contradicting  each  other  until  they  tend  to  pro- 
duce a  negative  result  of  things  pulling  in  oppo- 
site directions,  must  work  together  to  sharpen  the 
reader's  sense  of  the  kind  of  person  who  directs 
the  story. 

If  the  reader  knows  his  character  thoroughly, 
he  will  feel  toward  him  as  if  he  were  a  real  per- 
son, a  unit.  His  reactions  will  hang  together. 
The  reader  will  think,  "Now  isn't  that  just  like 
Tom!"  because  the  writer  has  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing of  Tom  a  unity  of  effect  and  emotion.  A  story 
type  is  a  lay  figure  made  up  of  characteristics 
belonging  to  dozens  of  persons;  an  individual  is 
his  own  original  combination  of  characteristics. 
The  child  recognizes  the  latter  and  calls  him  ''the 
real  thing"! 

Just  what  does  it  mean  to  know  the  character 
of  your  story  thoroughly?  Much  the  same  thing 
that  it  means  to  know  a  real  person  well;  with 
this  difference,  that  the  knowledge  of  the  char- 
acter which  you  create  may  be  unlimited,  while 
the  knowledge  of  any  other  human  being  may  go 
only  so  far.  Consider  some  person  of  whom  you 
can  say,  "Oh,  yes,  I  know  him  very  well."  Let 
us  see  what  this  phrase  implies  as  over  against 
the  statement,  "No,  I  don't  know  him  very  well." 
What  are  some  of  the  things  which  you  know 
about  the  person  of  whom  you  make  the  first 
statement?  Immediately  a  great  mass  of  con- 
fused characteristics  pours  in  upon  the  mind,  a 
habit  of  thought  here,  a  taste  for  mince  pie  there. 


CHARACTERIZATION  1 1 1 

Perhaps  tlio  most  orderly  way  to  sort  out  these 
characteristics  is  to  take  tlicm  in  the  order  in 
which  you  probably  obtained  them.  Your  reader, 
who  is  about  to  meet  your  hero,  is  in  your  origi- 
nal situation  and  will  have  to  go  through  your 
same  process  of  learning  to  know  a  new  person. 

The  first  characteristics  which  one  is  likely  to 
notice  about  a  person  are  the  physical  points, 
features,  coloring,  bearing,  clothes,  mannerisms 
if  they  are  fairly  obvious.  You  receive  a  certain 
impression  from  the  appearance  of  the  person. 
Later  you  may  find  you  were  wholly  or  partly 
wrong,  and  you  will  have  to  revise  your  impres- 
sion in  the  light  of  a  deeper  knowledge.  The 
reader  in  his  approach  to  your  hero  should  not 
be  confused  by  the  necessity  of  revision.  Nor  is 
there  any  necessity  since  you  have  the  makings 
in  your  own  hands.  If  your  hero  is  a  boy  of 
mental  alertness,  you  may  give  him  the  look  of 
mental  alertness  without  the  obscuring  effect  of 
adenoids  which  might  deceive  the  observer  of  a 
real  boy.  If  your  heroine  is  poor,  she  may  wear 
suitable  clothes  though  in  real  life  she  might  be- 
wilder the  observer  by  borrowed  garments.  That 
is,  you  have  the  privilege  of  creating  your  char- 
acter to  fit  the  place  for  which  you  intend  him; 
you  can  make  the  reader's  first  impressions  sound. 

Usually  the  next  thing  which  happens  in  your 
acquaintance  with  a  person  is  that  you  hear  him 
speak.  Speech  has  many  revealing  qualities. 
The  voice  itself  from  first  acquaintance  becomes 


112  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

so  mucli  a  part  of  the  person  that  you  can  recog- 
nize him  by  it  though  you  cannot  see  him.  Part 
of  this  characteristic  quality  lies  in  the  tone  and 
volume,  part  in  the  enunciation.  Both  of  these 
characteristics  are  difficult  to  convey  by  means  of 
words.  Try  to  tell  why  you  know  a  voice  which 
you  have  not  heard  for  years  in  such  a  way  that 
a  stranger  to  it  will  recognize  it.  Such  is  your 
problem  when  writing  of  voice.  The  question  of 
enunciation  is  often  solved  by  phonetic  spelling 
of  the  dialogue.  The  more  subtle  characteristic 
of  speech,  enunciation,  then  becomes  a  question  of 
pronunciation.  And  usually  the  whole  struggle 
of  expression  resolves  itself  into  a  form  of  dia- 
lect. Dialect  is  difficult  for  children.  They  have 
little  recognition  of  speech  differences  among 
themselves ;  a  missing  ing  or  extra  r  never  haunts 
them.  Unless  the  manner  of  speech  is  quite  ex- 
traordinary the  child  is  much  more  interested  in 
what  a  person  has  to  say  than  in  how  he  says  it. 
Add  to  lack  of  interest  in  manner  of  speech  the 
difficulty  of  ferreting  out  the  meaning  of  strangely 
spelled  words,  and  we  have  sufficient  reason  for 
avoiding  pronounced  dialect  in  stories  for  chil- 
dren. 

But  a  characteristic  of  speech  which  does  reveal 
and  which  is  within  the  scope  of  the  writer  lies 
in  the  vocabulary  of  the  speaker  and  his  use  of 
idiom.  Consider  the  revealing  effect  of  the  speech 
of  a  richly-dressed  woman  whom  you  pass  in  the 
street  just  as  she  bursts  into  cheap  slovenly  talk. 


CHARACTERIZATION  1 13 

Your  reader  listens  for  the  first  speech  of  the 
hero.  It  may  locate  the  boy  in  the  country,  in  the 
city,  as  a  young  foreigner,  as  the  child  of  the 
streets  or  of  educated  parents,  as  a  good  fellow 
or  a  sissy.  Children  soon  learn  in  their  own 
terms  for  what  speech  stands. 

Among  the  first  things  which  you  find  out  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  about  a  person  in  whom  you 
are  interested  are  the  conditions  of  his  environ- 
ment. Wiivit  is  his  job?  AVhere  does  he  live? 
How  does  he  play?  His  work,  and  whether  he 
likes  it  or  not,  help  you  to  understand  him.  His 
home  and  his  relation  to  it  give  you  his  back- 
ground and  the  likehhood  of  his  staying  in  it. 
What  he  likes  to  play  and  how  he  plays  it  are 
perhaps  the  most  revealing  of  all.  His  work  may 
be  thrust  upon  him,  his  family  he  did  not  choose ; 
but  his  play  lies  in  his  own  hands  and  partakes 
of  his  own  flavor.  As  he  plays,  his  real  self 
grasps  the  golf  sticks,  takes  the  helm,  swings  the 
racquet,  chooses  the  theatre;  and  from  the  ac- 
tion of  that  real  self  comes  much  illuminating 
data.  Thus,  as  you  give  your  hero  to  his  reader, 
you  can  disclose  him  best  at  his  work,  at  his 
play,  in  action  in  his  own  environment.  It  is 
after  all  not  what  anj^one  tells  you  about  a  per- 
son which  counts  for  the  final  impression,  but 
what  you  see  the  person  do,  what  you  learn 
through  his  conduct. 

This  conduct,  as  you  come  to  know  your  friend 
better,  adds  new  subjects  to  the  course  of  study 


114         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

which  it  offers.  It  begins  to  include  certain 
habits;  at  first  habits  of  action,  later  habits  of 
thought.  Personal  idiosyncrasies  we  call  manner- 
isms and  recognize  as  an  easy  way  of  character- 
ization. On  the  stage  a  mannerism  becomes  so 
identified  with  the  actor  that  it  comes  to  stand 
for  him  like  a  symbol.  The  mannerism  method 
of  characterization  from  its  simplicity  is  in 
danger  of  being  carried  far  enough  to  become 
caricature,  or  to  supersede  in  importance  through 
emphasis  the  character  himself.  The  result  is 
parody  instead  of  characterization.  Little  chil- 
dren, however,  are  less  likely  to  appreciate  sub- 
tlety and  more  likely  to  be  pleased  with  repeti- 
tion. They  will  not  usually  be  critical  of  the 
number  of  times  Grumpy  reveals  himself  as  a 
person  of  undesirable  tastes  and  habits,  or  of 
the  limited  repertoire  of  Sunny  in  proving  her 
enviable  qualities.  The  older  or  more  developed 
the  child,  the  closer  he  approaches  a  critical  esti- 
mate of  the  value  of  selected  and  significant  indi- 
cators of  character.  To  him  habits  of  thought 
are  revealing  and  interesting  in  his  hero.  He 
comes  to  know  pretty  well  what  such  a  boy  would 
think  about  such  a  proposition,  just  as  he  could 
predict  fairly  accurately  what  his  friend  Sam 
would  think  about  some  unfamiliar  situation. 

Older  people  come  into  the  visual  radius  of  the 
child  largely  by  their  peculiarities  of  habits.  Ask 
about  the  teacher,  and  you  obtain  an  impersona- 
tion of  some  of  her  idiosyncrasies  of  action  rather 


CHARACTERIZATION  1 15 

than  a  statement  of  her  efforts  in  behalf  of  her 
school.  The  effect  of  the  adult  on  the  child  is 
likely  to  be  limited  by  his  casual  observation  of 
habits.  William  Bowen  illustrates  this  point 
when  he  introduces  Aunt  Amanda  to  Freddy  in 
his  story  The  Old  Tobacco  Shop.  He  gives  the 
effect  which  Aunt  Amanda's  pin  habit  produces 
on  Freddy,  the  observer;  and  in  one  paragraph 
Aunt  Amanda  had  become  a  real  person  to  the 
reader  as  well  as  to  Freddy. 

Aunt  Amanda  put  a  hand  to  her  lips  and  drew  out 
of  her  mouth  a  pin  and  stuck  it  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  lips  again  and  drew 
forth  another  pin  and  stuck  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
She  drew  forth  another  and  another  and  stuck  each  in 
her  dress.  Freddy's  eyes  opened  wide;  did  this  lady 
eat  pins?  Her  mouth  seemed  to  be  full  of  them;  didn't 
they  hurt?  It  didn't  seem  possible  she  could  eat  them, 
and  yet  there  they  were.  No  wonder  she  couldn't  talk 
plainly.  There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  pins,  but 
there  was,  and  at  last  her  mouth  was  clear  of  them  so 
that  she  could  talk.^ 

As  time  goes  on  and  we  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  a  person,  we  find  that  we  have  built 
up  our  opinion  of  him  by  putting  together  the 
pieces  of  knowledge  which  we  have  gained 
through  observation  of  his  conduct  under  differ- 
ent conditions.  Serviceable  as  conduct  is  to  us 
in  giving  us  a  sense  of  knowing  a  person,  to  a 

1  The  Old  Tobacco  Shop,  by  William  Bowen,  by  special  per- 
mission of  the  Macmillan  Company, 


116  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

child  it  is  the  final  criterion  by  which  he  judges 
the  person,  and  forms  his  conclusive  opinion  of 
him.  An  adult  may  be  influenced  by  extenuating 
conditions,  or  convention,  or  reason,  or  another's 
opinion,  or  a  dozen  other  factors.  The  child  is 
not  troubled  by  many  subtleties  in  his  estimate 
of  people.  Bob  has  a  bad  reputation  in  school, 
he  gives  his  parents  no  end  of  trouble,  but  he  can 
s^\im  across  the  river  and  back  on  a  dare  and  he 
is  a  good  sport.  A  neighbor  appears  amiable  and 
kindly,  but  the  child  sees  him  kick  the  cat  do^^^l 
stairs,  and  says  he  is  mean.  Another  person  is 
a  bull}^  a  sneak  thief,  a  jim  dandy  fellow;  some- 
thing in  broad,  definite  characterization.  The 
child  may  form  his  opinion  out  of  a  series  of 
small  acts  on  the  way  to  school ;  or  he  may  shape 
his  judgment  from  a  piece  of  more  crucial  con- 
duct in  which  the  action  is  more  important  be- 
cause the  situation  is  more  dramatic. 

Our  analysis  of  the  process  of  knowing  a  per- 
son well  shows  us  that  a  great  variety  of  factors 
enters  into  the  process ;  that  by  the  time  we  have 
reached  a  state  of  intimate  knowledge  of  another, 
we  have  collected  much  data.  The  writer  who 
has  gone  through  the  same  process  with  his  fiction 
character  has  assembled  evidence  of  even  greater 
variety  and  amount.  He  is  aware  that  he  cannot 
use  all  of  these  character  traits  unless  he  intends 
to  write  a  biography.  Selection  becomes  as  im- 
portaTit  and  critical  an  obligation  as  creation. 
The  choice  depends  upon  the  kind  of  story  which 


CHARACTERIZATION  117 

the  writer  wishes  his  character  to  motivate.  Any 
human  or  fiction  character  has  the  potentiahty 
of  action  in  more  than  one  direction.  If  our  story 
is  to  have  sharp  outUnes,  swift  movement,  and 
credible  outcome,  we  must  select  the  characteris- 
tics which  will  pull  in  the  one  particular  direction 
of  this  one  particular  story.  Another  set  of 
characteristics  may  make  another  story  for  us 
some  day  but  except  as  they  give  us  a  real  back- 
ground for  our  writing  they  are  not  necessary 
now. 

In  stories  for  children  the  writer  has  to  use 
character  traits  of  which  the  child  is  supposed  to 
be  aware  at  that  stage  of  his  development.  For 
instance,  in  the  story  of  the  three  pigs,  AATiitie 
represents  greediness,  Blackie,  laziness  and  love 
of  dirt,  while  common  sense  and  neatness  appear 
in  the  person  of  Brownie.  Often  character  traits 
which  adults  think  children  ought  to  have,  like 
obedience,  honesty,  form  the  basis  of  moral  sto- 
ries. Lucy  Sprague  Mitchell  makes  character 
traits  in  the  stories  for  young  children  not  so 
much  moral  as  the  curiosity  about  life  which  a 
small  child  has.  Her  stories  are  not  so  much  reac- 
tion between  character  and  event  as  just  discover- 
ing things.  As  children  grow  older,  character 
traits  become  more  significant  to  them.  School 
stories  take  on  a  more  personal  flavor  as  they  il- 
lustrate bravery,  cowardice,  loyalty,  and  so  forth. 
The  way  the  characters  act  in  the  baseball  game. 


118  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

down  the  well,  with  an  overturned  canoe,  settles 
finally  what  the  reader  thinks  about  thenx 

If  by  this  time  we  know  as  much  about  our 
story  characters  as  we  know  about  the  person  of 
whom  we  can  say,  "Oh,  yes,  I  know  him  very 
well,"  and  if  we  have  selected  certain  of  the  char- 
acter traits  as  revealing  and  interesting,  we  are 
ready  to  consider  effective  methods  of  making 
our  readers  feel  the  personality.  The  writer  of 
the  book  has,  of  course,  more  time  and  space 
to  work  out  his  problem  than  the  writer  of  the 
short  story.  The  book  may  incorporate  all  of  the 
different  methods  of  presentation  before  it  is 
finished,  but  the  short  story  must  limit  itself  to 
brief  and  telling  procedure 

The  old-fashioned  way  of  characterization  was 
alike  both  for  the  long  and  the  short  story. 
Through  description  the  reader  learned  how  the 
characters  looked,  and  by  exposition  he  discov- 
ered any  other  information  which  the  writer  felt 
pertinent.  Such  method  encouraged  the  presen- 
tation of  types  rather  than  of  people.  Stories  had 
types  of  pretty  girls,  types  of  naughty  boys,  typ- 
ical backgrounds  for  them,  and  typical  fates  in 
store  for  them.  The  characters  handled  in  this 
way  never  became  individual  and  potent  enough 
to  work  out  any  plots  for  tliomselves.  The 
author,  consequently,  managed  the  job  for  them, 
and  set  them  up  to  any  typical  situation  which 
he  considered  suitable  to  emphasize  his  point. 
Almost  any  grown  person  can  recall  books  and 


CHARACTERIZATION  1 19 

stories  of  this  kind  which  belonged  to  the  period 
of  his  youth. 

The  writer  of  the  modern  story  must  take  his 
lesson  from  those  of  the  older  writers  who  suc- 
ceeded in  creating  stories  of  permanent  value  to 
children.  On  their  methods  of  success  he  must 
build  his  own  contribution  as  he  comes  to  a  recog- 
nition of  the  needs  of  the  modern  child,  and  as 
he  realizes  his  individual  system  for  meeting 
them.  The  same  needs  may  indeed  have  existed 
always,  but  now  the  child  demands  their  satisfac- 
tion and  it  behooves  the  writer  to  take  notice 
of  them. 

The  beginner  who  talks  ahout  his  characters 
instead  of  making  tliom  live  their  own  stories,  is 
likely  to  fall  into  blocks  of  descriptive  material. 
Logically  such  pieces  of  description  are  bad. 
When  the  child  watches  action,  he  takes  in  the 
appearance  of  the  actors  only  as  an  aside;  his 
mind  is  on  the  action.  If  on  the  stage  the  actors 
were  led  in  front  of  the  audience,  and  it  was  told 
to  observe  their  eyes,  hair,  teeth,  dress,  etc.,  we 
can  readily  see  that  the  dramatic  effect  might 
suffer.  In  short  story  writing  where  we  aim  at 
a  single  dramatic  effect,  we  are  likely  to  weaken 
it  in  much  the  same  way  if  we  stop,  draw  atten- 
tion away  from  the  action,  and  point  out  the  ap- 
pearance or  the  household  furnishings  of  our 
actor. 

Yet  the  child  usually  wishes  to  know  how  his 
story    character    looks.      Like    most    adults,    he 


120         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

wishes  the  writer  to  give  him  a  visual  image  to 
start  with.  Illustrations  should  help;  sometimes 
they  do.  Since,  however,  writers  and  illustrators 
seldom  consult  over  their  cooperative  products, 
the  writer  would  do  well  to  depend  upon  himself. 
In  the  short  story  where  the  emphasis  is  on  dra- 
matic unity,  appearance  should  come  to  the  at- 
tention naturally,  as  it  does  during  the  observa- 
tion of  real  action.  Casually,  a  word  here,  a 
phrase  there,  correspond  with  that  random  acqui- 
sition of  appearance  which  is  the  experience  of 
the  observer  of  any  interesting  situation.  His 
attention  remains  focussed  on  the  action,  but  at 
the  same  time  he  is  gradually  acquiring  a  real- 
ization of  the  appearance  of  the  actors.  In  the 
book  the  writer  has  time  to  stop  for  more  detailed 
description.  Yet  even  here  the  description  must 
be  active,  connected  with  the  action  of  the  char- 
acters. The  following  description  from  Dorothy 
Caniield's  Understood  Betsy  suggests  the  activity 
of  Ralph  and  his  effect  on  Elizabeth  Ann. 

Ralph  had  very  black  eyes,  dark  hair,  a  big  bruise 
on  his  forehead,  a  cut  on  his  chin,  and  a  tear  in  the 
knee  of  his  short  trousers.  He  was  much  bigger  than 
Ellen,  and  EHzabeth  Ann  thought  he  looked  rather 
fierce.  Slie  decided  that  she  would  be  afraid  of  him  and 
would  not  like  him  at  all. 

Such  a  description  really  characterizes.  The 
bruise  on  the  forehead,  the  cut  on  the  chin,  and 
the  tear  in  the  trousers,  indicate  action  which 


CHARACTERIZATION  121 

springs  from  the  kind  of  disposition  that  might 
well  terrify  Elizabeth  Ann. 

If  there  was  one  thing  Freddie  loathed,  it  was  to  be 
called  pretty;  he  had  heard  it  before,  in  the  parlor  at 
home,  when  he  had  been  trotted  out  to  be  inspected  by 
female  visitors,  and  he  had  tried  many  a  time  to  scrub 
off  the  rosy  redness  from  his  cheeks,  but  he  had  found 
it  only  made  it  worse.^ 

The  unskillful  writer  would  have  told  his  read- 
ers that  Freddie  was  a  pretty  boy  with  red 
cheeks.  But  this  bit  of  characterization  from 
William  Bowen's  The  Old  Tobacco  SJiop  shows 
the  effect  of  Freddie's  appearance  on  outsiders 
and  the  reacting  effect  of  their  admiration  upon 
him. 

The  following  descriptions  of  the  principal 
characters  in  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett's  The 
Secret  Garden,  all  convey  personality. 

When  Mary  Lennox  was  sent  to  Misselthwaite  Manor 
to  live  with  her  uncle  everybody  said  she  was  the  most 
disagreeable  looking  child  ever  seen.  It  was  true,  too. 
She  had  a  little,  thin  face  and  a  little  thin  body,  thin 
light  hair,  and  a  sour  expression.  Her  hair  was  yellow 
and  her  face  was  yellow  because  she  had  been  in  India 
and  had  always  been  ill  in  one  way  or  another. 

A  boy  was  sitting  under  a  tree,  with  his  back  against 
it,  playing  on  a  rough  wooden  pipe.  He  was  a  funny 
looking  boy  about  twelve.    He  looked  very  clean  and  his 

1  The  Old  Tobacco  Shop,  by  William  Bowen,  by  special  per- 
mission of  the  Macmillan  Company. 


122  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

nose  turned  up  and  his  cheeks  were  as  red  as  poppies, 
and  never  had  ]\Iistrcss  Mary  seen  such  round  and  such 
blue  eyes  in  any  boy's  face.  And  on  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  he  leaned  against,  a  brown  squirrel  was  clinging 
and  watching  him,  and  from  behind  a  bush  nearby  a 
cock  pheasant  was  delicately  stretching  his  neck  to  peep 
out,  and  quite  near  him  were  two  rabbits  sitting  up  and 
sniffing  with  tremulous  noses — and  actually  it  appeared 
as  if  they  were  all  drawing  near  to  watch  him  and  listen 
to  the  strange  low  little  call  his  pipe  seemed  to  make. 

The  boy  had  a  sharp  delicate  face  the  color  of  ivory, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  eyes  too  big  for  it.  He  had  also 
a  lot  of  hair  which  tumbled  over  his  forehead  in  heavy 
locks  and  made  his  thin  face  seem  smaller.  He  looked 
like  a  boy  who  had  been  ill,  but  he  was  crying  more  as 
if  he  were  tired  than  as  if  he  were  in  pain,^ 

Mary^s  appearance  is  tied  up  with  her  disposi- 
tion, Dickon's  with  his  power  over  animals,  Co- 
lin's  with  his  illness  and  nervous  depression. 
The  action  of  each  of  the  three  children  is  domi- 
nated by  the  characteristics  which  lie  behind  their 
appearance  and  which  are  suggested  by  it.  Such 
description  has  an  active  function  in  helping  to 
motivate  the  drama. 

The  question  of  the  importance  of  dress  in  con- 
veying appearance  and  in  characterizing  the 
wearer  usually  puzzles  the  beginner.  Dress 
should  be  revealing.  Rebecca's  starched  calico 
dress  placed  her  both  as  to  locality  and  worldly 
Bituatioii.    Lord  Fauntleroy's  clothes  became  so 

1  ]{<'pririto(l  by  permission  of  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company, 
from  The  Secret  Garden,  by  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett.  Copy- 
right  1911. 


CHARACTERIZATION  123 

closely  tied  up  with  his  character  that  numerous 
mothers  adopted  the  one  hoping  to  induce  the 
other.  The  choice  of  any  current  style  of  dress 
for  a  character,  however,  is  dangerous  in  so  far 
as  it  dates  the  story.  The  girls  of  Smith  College 
may  do  much  the  same  things  that  Josephine 
Dodge  Daskam's  girls  did,  but  they  no  longer 
wear  golf  capes.  As  far  as  dress  reveals  and  sets 
off  the  child,  through  its  texture,  its  state  of  clean- 
liness, condition  of  wear,  as  a  frame,  etc.,  it  serves 
its  purpose  in  characterization.  But  the  writer 
as  he  uses  dress  should  subject  it  to  severe  tests 
for  its  usefulness. 

As  our  chapter  on  dialogue  emphasizes,  con- 
versation is  a  method  of  characterization  which 
is  familiar  to  the  child  in  his  own  life  and  which 
he  can  most  easily  interpret  in  fiction  life.  Booth 
Tarkington  almost  always  characterizes  his  chil- 
dren through  their  action  in  dialogue.  As  the 
children  talk,  the  event  develops.  They  go  ahead 
about  what  they  are  doing,  and  as  they  do  it,  they 
tell  you  about  it.  A  writer  in  his  use  of  reveal- 
ing and  active  dialogue  has  a  most  effective  tool 
for  his  work  on  characterization. 

The  character  of  a  person  is  often  clarified  by 
the  author's  revelation  of  its  effect  on  other 
people ;  the  way  her  family  or  friends  think  about 
her,  what  they  say  about  her,  how  they  treat  her. 
Or  the  writer  may  use  the  reaction  of  his  story 
character  to  her  environment;  her  struggle 
against  poverty,  riches,  loneliness,  hard  luck,  or 


124  JIATENILE  STORY  WRITING 

good  luck.  Here  the  setting  becomes  not  only 
the  necessary  background,  but  an  active  factor 
in  the  development  of  the  character. 

Action  beyond  everything  else  is  a  revealing 
method  of  characterization.  In  building  up  the 
character,  the  writer  prepares  for  important 
action  in  the  story  by  indications  of  the  disposi- 
tion in  response  to  small  things,  discomforts,  dis- 
appointments, praise.  The  reaction  may  be 
shown  in  facial  expression,  or  in  what  the  child 
says,  or  the  way  he  acts  in  regard  to  these  things. 
Then  when  the  important  action  comes,  it  comes 
as  the  natural  expression  of  the  sort  of  charac- 
ter which  the  author  has  portrayed.  Here,  in 
brief,  lies  the  relation  of  the  character  to  the 
plot.  Wliether  one  holds  that  the  character  is 
the  outgrowth  of  the  plot  or  the  plot  the  out- 
growth of  the  character  is  a  question  of  prece- 
dence which  may  be  decided  either  way.  If  the 
writer  invents  his  plot  first  he  must  have  with  it 
a  character  who  will  motivate  the  action  with 
reality;  if  he  finds  the  character  developing  first, 
he  will  of  necessity  connect  the  character  with  a 
congruous  plot.  A\Tiichever  seems  to  come  first, 
no  plot  will  be  authentic  if  the  action  is  not  ade- 
quately motivated  by  the  character.  As  the  char- 
acter motivates  the  action,  the  action  in  turn 
reveals  the  character.  Thus  the  two  are  one  if 
the  result  is  the  kind  of  unit  which  we  hold  to  be 
the  standard  of  a  well-written  story.  Just  as  we 
noted  in  our  process  of  becoming  acquainted  with 


CHARACTERIZATION  125 

a  person  that  conduct  was  the  final  test,  so  in  the 
story,  action  is  bound  to  speak  louder  than  words. 
A  plot  after  all  is  conduct  in  a  crisis.  The  way 
a  character  behaves  in  a  difficult  situation  is  the 
thing  which  determines  the  story;  at  the  same 
time,  conduct  in  a  difficult  situation  is  the  final 
proof  of  the  sort  of  character  in  the  story.  The 
consideration  of  the  kinds  of  problems  which  are 
the  final  stage  in  characterization  is  part  of  the 
discussion  of  plot  in  stories. 


CHAPTEE  IX 
Dialogue 

Dialogue  is  the  one  part  of  a  juvenile  story 
which  the  autlior  may  be  sure  is  going  to  be  read. 
Description  may  be  sldpped  entirely,  exposition 
may  be  brushed  over  sufficiently  to  glean  the  idea 
necessary  to  the  plot,  but  conversation  will  be 
read.  Lewis  Carroll  makes  Alice  express  the  feel- 
ings of  the  usual  child  when  she  sits  on  the  bank 
peeping  into  the  book  her  sister  was  reading. 
"But  it  had  no  pictures  or  conversation  in  it,  and 
*what  is  the  use  of  a  book,'  thought  Alice,  'with- 
out pictures  or  conversation?'  " 

The  immediate  reaction  of  children  to  dia- 
logue proceeds  from  the  inevitable  attempt  of  the 
child  to  make  contact  with  something  which  he 
knows.  In  conversation  youth  recognizes  its  own 
familiar  mode  of  self-expression.  Through  action 
and  through  speech,  a  child  seeks  to  impress  his 
own  individuality  and  to  discover  the  individu- 
ality of  others.  When  a  character  in  a  book 
talks,  ho  meets  his  listener  on  a  plane  of  equality, 
he  uses  thcj  equipment  which  nature  gave  them 
both.    He  may,  therefore,  feel  pretty  sure  of  his 

126 


DIALOGUE  127 

audience.  The  experienced  author  recognizes  the 
soundness  of  this  method  of  getting  his  real  and 
imaginary  children  en  rapport,  and  takes  advan- 
tage of  it. 

Not  only  is  conversation  the  natural  method  of 
communication  but  from  its  mere  technical  form 
and  arrangement,  it  appeals  to  the  eye  of  the 
child.  The  broken  line  is  easy  to  follow,  the  spac- 
ing separates  the  thoughts.  A  child  who  is  be- 
ginning to  read  will  do  much  better  on  a  page  of 
conversation  than  on  a  page  of  narrative,  no 
matter  how  interesting  it  may  be.  Eeading  goes 
along  faster;  the  reader  feels  as  if  he  were  get- 
ting somewhere;  he  acquires  a  sense  of  satisfac- 
tion in  accomplishment  which  attaches  itself  to 
the  sight  of  the  printed  page  and  may  stay  with 
it  for  a  long  time.  Through  dialogue  the  story 
moves  more  quickly  and  the  child's  mastery  of 
the  story  quickens;  action,  which  strikes  the  key- 
note of  the  child's  primitive  self-expression,  is 
being  yoked  to  this  extremely  passive  form  of 
amusement,  reading. 

Just  as  two  boys  find  out  all  about  each  other 
through  conversation,  so  in  fiction  the  dialogue 
reveals  the  characters  to  the  readers.  Real  con- 
versation, uncensored,  unselected,  uncut,  is  extra- 
ordinarily revealing  of  personality  to  anyone. 
We  as  adults  about  our  business  listen  to  the 
description  of  a  person's  attributes,  we  ask  ques- 
tions about  him  and  receive  what  we  know  to  be 
honest   answers,    but   what   is    our   last    word? 


128         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

*' Bring  him  out.  We  should  like  to  talk  with 
him." 

AVherein  does  the  value  of  the  personal  inter- 
view lie  ?  Somewhat  in  a  chance  to  see  the  person, 
but  not  to  see  him  speechless  hke  a  portrait.  He 
must  reveal  himself  by  talking  with  us.  We  will 
not  take  him  on  as  a  friend,  or  a  clerk,  or  a  can- 
didate for  a  Ph.D.,  until  we  have  done  more  than 
look  at  him. 

Just  what  does  he  give  us  through  his  speech? 
Unquestionably  the  voice  of  a  person  has  influ- 
ence in  his  effect.  Therein  stage  dialogue  has 
the  advantage  over  book  dialogue.  You  do  not 
have  to  be  told  that  one  character  has  a  mellow 
contralto  voice,  that  another  spoke  gently,  asked 
instantly,  answered  roughly.  The  actress  flutes 
her  words  gently,  instantly,  with  her  mellow 
voice,  and  the  audience  listens  with  no  need  of 
interpretation. 

One  reason  why  children  of  all  ages  like  to  have 
stories  read  to  them  is  that  they  gain  through 
the  reader  some  of  the  dramatic  interpretation 
which  the  stage  gives  to  the  written  line. 

Dialogue  in  a  story,  of  course,  must  not  only 
be  characteristic  of  the  speaker,  as  in  real  life, 
but  it  must  also  serve  to  carry  the  action  of  the 
story  ahead.  This  double  purpose  lies  at  the 
root  of  the  difficulty  in  writing  good  dialogue. 
Plionographic  reproduction  may  possess  faithful- 
ness to  life,  but  it  fails  of  the  necessary  adapta- 
tion to  the  art  form  of  the  story — an  adaptation 


DIALOGUE  129 

which  gives  the  effect  of  naturalness  by  some 
artificial  devices.  These  two  functions  of  dia- 
logue, characterization  and  action,  demand  sep- 
arate consideration. 

The  juvenile  book  has  the  problem  on  its  hands 
of  an  audience,  not  wholly  unlike  a  large  propor- 
tion of  adult  readers,  which  is  too  immature  and 
inexperienced  to  read  into  the  dialogue  the  sig- 
nificance which  comes  through  a  speaker.  A  cer- 
tain degree  of  development  is  necessary  in  order 
to  read  to  oneself  with  pleasure  the  lines  of  a 
play.  Most  of  us  have  had  the  experience  of  as- 
tonished realization  of  content  when  we  have 
reread  a  play  after  having  seen  it  acted.  This 
situation  brings  us  to  the  problem  of  the  manage- 
ment of  dialogue.  How  shall  we  make  our  young 
readers  understand  the  mood  of  the  characters 
speaking  sufficiently  to  give  the  dialogue  its  full 
significance?  How  shall  we  carry  on  what  must 
become  so  large  a  part  of  our  story  without  the 
monotonous  repetition  of  the  w^ord  saidf 

The  beginner  is  likely  to  have  a  very  real  sense 
of  the  way  his  characters  feel  when  they  talk,  and 
with  it  a  con\4ction  that  his  reader  will  not  quite 
get  that  important  emotion  unless  it  is  pointed 
out  to  him.  The  obvious  thing  to  do,  then,  is  to 
explain  with  each  speech  of  the  dialogue  the  way 
in  which  it  was  uttered.  For  example,  in  a  story 
which  I  read  the  other  day,  the  first  eight  sen- 
tences  were  dialogue  coupled  with  the  following 
eight   explanatory  terms:   she   said  abruptly,   I 


130  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

answered  politely,  I  added  involuntarily,  she 
answered  quickly,  I  said  vaguely,  she  asked  in- 
stantly, I  answered  gravely,  she  said  abruptly. 
In  the  writer's  desire  to  make  her  reader  ac- 
quainted with  the  inflections  and  spirit  of  the 
characters  who  were  opening  the  story,  she 
caught  at  the  easy  method  of  the  explanatory 
adverbial  modifier  and  used  it  with  monstrous 
repetition. 

The  adverbial  phrase  is  a  close  relative  of  the 
adverbial  modifier  with  many  of  the  same  family 
characteristics  in  its  effect  on  writing.  I  said 
with  a  laugh,  with  a  sigh,  with  a  nonchalant  air, 
tells  the  reader  how  I  said  it  but  gives  him  little 
concrete  detail.  The  unstinted  use  of  the  adverb 
modifier  is  usually  the  earmark  of  the  beginner. 
He  hears  his  heroine  spealdng  her  lines  soberly, 
happily,  doubtfully,  and  he  w^ants  to  be  sure  that 
his  reader  attaches  these  same  emotions  at  the 
proper  places  in  the  dialogue.  So  with  simple 
directness  he  mentions  after  each  said,  the  neces- 
sary how  she  said  it. 

Our  main  objection  to  this  method  of  speech  in- 
terpretation is  its  monotony.  If  we  assume  that 
style  is  a  desirable  addition  to  the  equipment  of 
the  writer  of  juvenile  books — and  we  have  too 
little  encouragement  for  that  assumption — we 
must  bar  the  overuse  of  the  adverbial  modifier. 
Any  Ix'ginner  would  do  well  to  go  over  his  manu- 
script and  underline  all  of  his  adverbs  used  as 
conversational  modifiers. 


DIALOGUE 


131 


The  next  step  is  to  find  a  substitute  for  adverbs 
which  will  help  the  reader  to  understand  the  sub- 
tleties of  the  heroine's  feelings  as  she  talks.  The 
adverb  lacks  the  concrete  detail  which  stimulates 
imagination.  A  special  verb  which  conveys  the 
combination  of  said  plus  action  is  much  more 
likely  to  visualize  in  the  reader's  mind  the  hero- 
ine's slant  toward  her  own  speeches.  These 
special  verb  substitutes  for  said  are  varied  in 
number  and  value.  Probably  at  the  present  time 
Eleanor  Hallowell  Abbott  has  the  world's  record 
for  the  size  of  her  selection.  The  following  list 
is  collected  from  two  chapters  of  her  story  Half 
a  Hill. 


hailed 

acknowledged 

mused 

gloated 

urged 

begged 

singsonged 

challenged 

labored 

shivered 

agreed 

stammered 

besought 

rejoiced 

murmured 

ilunged 

whispered 

laughed 

gasped 

lailed 

triumphed 

rallied 

quizzed 

flushed 

questioned 

essayed 

insisted 

explained 

ordered 

snapped 

affirmed 

interposed 

pointed 

confided 

persisted 

conceded 

flared 

jerked 

admitted 

bristled 

reflected 

frowned 

expostulated 

intorcopted 

repeated 

grinned 

calculated 

scowled 

mimicked 

lied 

admonished 

parried 

confessed 

prompted 

yawned 

acquiesced 

kindled 

began 

puzzled 

bridled 

bowed 

bantered 

deduced 

protested 

ventured 

added 

prodded 

queried 

puzzled 

argued 

blurted 

The  obvious  objection  to  seventy-one  substi- 
tutes for  said  in  two  chapters  is  the  artificial 
effect.  The  reader  becomes  absorbed  with  the 
enormous  possibilities  of  the  writer's  vocabulary 


132  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

and  follows  her  agile  efforts  with  somewhat  the 
interest  that  he  bestows  on  a  dictionary  of  syno- 
njTiis.  Tims  the  very  struggle  for  vividness 
places  the  emphasis  away  from  the  substance  of 
the  speech,  which  after  all  is  where  most  readers 
like  it. 

The  special  verb  has,  however,  a  decided  advan- 
tage over  the  modified  said.  For  economy  and 
significance,  ''she  bantered"  is  better  than  *'she 
said  banteringly";  "she  protested"  than  "she 
said  protestingly";  "she  persisted"  than  "she 
continued  persistently."  Facility  in  management 
of  dialogue  amounts  to  more  than  trick  agility. 
Real  skill  avoids  monotony  of  mannerisms  with- 
out losing  the  exact  simplicity  which  may  use  the 
unmodified  said  or  vary  it  with  a  sharper  word. 

The  combination  of  dialogue  wdth  bits  of  stage 
business  often  affords  vivid  detail  to  help  in  the 
interpretation  of  speech.  Probably  the  use  of  the 
action  of  a  person  to  indicate  that  he  is  the 
speaker  affords  as  subtle  and  complex  a  way  of 
managing  conversation  as  any.  Yet  it  has  a  pe- 
culiarly valuable  function  in  juvenile  writing  in 
that  it  gives  the  young  reader  the  effect  in  a 
single  brush  stroke,  even  though  that  stroke  had 
to  be  applied  with  infinite  pains  by  the  artist. 

"A  pretty  good  crop  of  potatoes."  Benny 
straightened  up  for  a  moment  from  the  endless 
row  of  bug-specked  leaves.  Compare  with,  "A 
pretty  good  crop  of  potatoes,"  said  Benny  cheer- 
fully though  wearily  as  he  straightened  up. 


DIALOGUE  133 

Or,  '*"\^Tiat  sort  of  noise  was  it?"  The  guide 
appeared  unmistakably  interested;  compared 
with,  "What  sort  of  noise  was  it?'^  asked  the 
guide  with  unmistakable  interest. 

The  use  of  the  phrase  which  gives  the  effect 
of  speech  on  the  hearer  may  make  for  brevity  and 
force ;  the  voice  sounded,  manner  was,  etc. 

''Drop  it,  Jake!"  Henry's  voice  came  loud  and 
clear.  Transpose  into  Henry  said  loudly,  Henry 
called  out,  Henry  shouted.  Or,  "I'll  drop  it.'* 
It  was  hardly  ahove  a  breath;  transpose  into  he 
said  softly  or  he  murmured.  The  substitute  lacks 
the  simplicity  and  exactness  of  the  original.  Said 
becomes  unnecessary.  The  reader  sees  the  ac- 
tion of  the  speaker  or  hears  the  voice  even  as  the 
character  speaks,  and  by  this  immediateness  gets 
a  more  photographic  effect  of  the  situation. 

The  youngster,  whether  he  is  reading  the  book 
or  having  it  read  to  him,  usually  wishes  to  be 
told  who  is  talking.  It  is  difficult  for  him,  unless 
the  rendering  is  unusually  dramatic,  to  select 
from  a  group  the  speaker  by  his  speech  alone. 
For  that  reason  the  dramatic  method  of  handling 
dialogue  is  obscure  for  the  inexperienced  reader. 
For  example,  the  following  page  of  dialogue  from 
Barrie's  Margaret  Ogilvy,  while  it  is  masterly  in 
its  self-revealing  content,  could  hardly  leave  the 
ordinary  child  reader  clear  at  the  end  of  it  as  to 
the  identity  of  the  separate  speakers. 

In  an  hour  or  so  I  return,  and  perhaps  find  her  in 


134  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

bed,  according  to  promise,  but  still  I  am  suspicious.  The 
way  to  her  detection  is  circuitous. 

"I'll  need  to  be  rising  now,"  she  says,  with  a  yawn 
that  may  be  genuine. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  bed?" 

"You  saw  me  go." 

"And  then  I  saw  you  at  the  window.  Did  you  go 
straight  back  to  bed?" 

"Surely  I  had  that  much  sense." 

"The  truth!" 

"I  might  have  taken  a  look  at  the  clock  first." 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  have  a  mother  who  pre- 
varicates.   Have  you  been  lying  down  ever  since  I  left?" 

"Thereabouts." 

"What  does  that  mean  exactly?" 

"Off  and  on." 

"Have  you  been  to  the  garret?" 

"AVhat  should  I  do  in  the  garret?" 

"But  have  you?" 

**I  might  just  have  looked  up  the  garret  stair." 

"You  have  been  redding  up  the  garret  again!" 

"Not  what  you  could  call  a  redd  up." 

"0,  woman,  woman,  I  believe  you  have  not  been  in 
bed  at  all!" 

"You  see  me  in  it." 

"My  opinion  is  that  you  jumped  into  bed  when  you 
heard  me  open  the  door." 

"Havers." 

''Did  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  when  you  heard  me  open  the  gate." 

"It  might  have  been  when  I  heard  you  at  the  gate." 

This  form  approaches  the  stage  so  closely  that 
the  writer  who  uses  it  quite  often  slips  from  play 
writing  to  story  writing  with  equal  success,  such 


DIALOGUE  135 

is  his  habit  of  thought  in  regard  to  dialogue.  Not 
that  he  will  necessarily  fail  in  his  appeal  to  chil- 
dren, but  he  usually  needs  a  Maude  Adams  as  a 
medium  for  his  success.  A  Peter  Pan  between 
the  covers  is  a  much  less  fascinating  chap  than  a 
Peter  Pan  who  actually  flies  all  around  the  room. 

When  a  writer  is  so  filled  with  the  emotional 
value  or  the  swift  action  of  his  story  that  it 
floods  method  and  drowns  it  in  content,  he  carries 
his  reader,  young  or  old,  along  with  him  and 
neither  he  nor  his  reader  is  aware  of  the  way 
of  transportation.  Interpretation  reads  itself 
through  the  lines.  Suppose  Kipling  told  us  how 
Little  Tobrah  talked;  would  you  respond  more 
quickly  to  that  stark  child  tragedy?  Quite  true 
Little  Tobrah  is  for  adults,  but  what  of  Dr.  Do- 
little?  He  and  his  animal  household  carry  on 
conversation  concerning  all  sorts  of  conditions 
with  inimitable  reality  conveyed  usually  by  a 
simple  said.  Their  ship  strikes  something  and 
gives  every  evidence  of  going  to  pieces.  *'We 
must  have  run  into  Africa,"  said  the  Doctor. 
*'Dear  me,  dear  me!  Well,  we  must  all  swim  to 
land. ' '  *  Would  even  a  five-year-old  need  illumi- 
nation about  how  he  said  it? 

The  perfection  of  this  art  of  Kipling's  and 
Lofting 's  lies  not  in  the  management  of  the  dia- 
logue so  much  as  in  the  writing  of  the  dialogue 
itself.     For  after  all,  ways  of  managing  one's 

'Reprinted  by  permission   from   Th^  Story  of  Dr.  DoHttle,  by 
Hugh  Lofting.    Copyright  1920,  by  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


136  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

dialogue  amount  to  little  if  one  cannot  write  re- 
vealing dialogue. 

Suppose  you  are  writing  a  story  in  which  two 
girls  figure.  In  real  life  if  these  two  girls  were 
talking  together,  it  is  quite  likely  that  the  con- 
versation of  one  would  so  closely  resemble  that 
of  the  other  that  the  casual  listener  would  say, 
*'A11  girls  talk  alike!"  In  a  story,  however,  we 
do  not  transcribe  the  complete  conversation  of 
our  characters.  We  must  select.  Listen  again 
to  your  two  girls.  Now  and  then  comes  a  phrase 
and  if  you  know  the  speaker  you  will  say,  ''That's 
just  like  Sally!"  In  other  words,  that  phrase 
has  revealed  some  familiar  characteristic  of 
Sally.  But  you  must  know  your  Sally  in  order 
to  select,  from  the  ordinary  girl  banalities,  her 
characteristic  phrases  which  give  her  individual 
bent  toward  the  subject  in  hand. 

The  writer  who  does  not  know  his  own  particu- 
lar Sally  inside  and  out,  better  than  he  can  know 
any  Sally  alive,  is  not  going  to  write  revealing 
dialogue.  His  Sally  and  Jane  can  exchange 
phrases  equally  well  and  the  reader  will  be  none 
the  wiser.  Such  a  writer  will  very  likely  be 
driven  to  blocks  of  exposition  and  description  by 
his  own  realization  of  the  inadequacy  of  his  char- 
acterization through  dialogue. 

A  writer's  knowledge  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
the  character  which  he  has  created  must  be  such 
that  he  knows  instantly  her  reaction  to  given 
circumstances  and  how  she  would  express  that 


DIALOGUE  137 

reaction  in  spoken  words.  Otherwise  he  has  not 
really  created  her  and  she  never  will  be  alive 
either  to  him  or  to  his  reader. 

If  dialogue  is  to  reveal  personality,  it  is  obvious 
that  it  must  be  natural.  Artificiality  of  dialogue 
makes  the  reader  uncomfortable  in  much  the  same 
way  as  affected  conversation  between  two  people. 
Sometimes  the  w^riter  to  give  an  effect  of  light- 
ness attempts  the  introduction  of  a  kind  of  type 
bantering.  This  dialogue  may  represent  his  idea 
of  how  college  girls  or  college  boys  talk  to  each 
other,  but  if  it  is  of  a  type  sort,  it  usually  misses 
entirely  the  spontaneous  sharp  shooting  of 
tongues  when  such  people  get  together.  Such 
dialogue  as  that  of  Owen  Wister's  boys  in  Philos- 
ophy Four,  is  an  achievement  of  reality.  It  has 
none  of  the  stilted  phrasing  of  the  grown-up  writ- 
ing down  to  the  youngster,  nor  any  of  the  irrele- 
vant emptiness  of  the  youngster  trying  to  repro- 
duce his  own  speech.  Any  author  know^s  that  he 
cannot  afford  to  write  down  to  his  readers,  but 
his  difficulty  arises,  of  course,  in  the  fact  that  he 
does  not  know  wiien  he  is  writing  down  to  them. 
The  reader  recognizes  it,  however,  in  the  feeling 
of  discomfort  which  artificiality  gives  him,  and 
in  the  sense  of  being  thwarted  in  this  means  by 
which  character  is  usually  revealed  to  him. 

Here  we  are  brought  up  short  by  the  question 
which  constantly  arises  in  juvenile  writing.  AVhat 
is  the  writer  to  do  about:  (1)  ungrammatical 
speech;  (2)  slang;  (3)  dialect?    All  of  these  con- 


138         JUVENILE  STORY  WRTIING 

ditions  belong  to  the  natural  speech  of  many 
children  who  will  serve  as  subjects  of  stories. 
Shall  we  ignore  them  or  use  them?  Careful 
mothers  often  refuse  to  read  books  which  con- 
tain any  evidence  of  these  flaws  of  speech  on  the 
ground  that  the  imitative  child  will  copy  them  or 
at  least  be  confused  as  to  their  value.  It  is  a 
point  to  be  considered  since  with  the  elders  lies 
the  choice  of  the  book. 

*'But,"  the  writer  protests,  *'I  can't  write  the 
(dialogue  of  farmers'  children  and  spell  it  as  I 
should  the  speech  of  a  professor's  child.  Not  if 
I  am  to  write  natural  dialogue!" 

The  solution  of  this  problem  varies  with  the 
age  of  the  reader.  And  the  child  himself  supplies 
the  key.  "While  he  is  very  young,  passing  through 
the  formative  period  most  critical  to  his  speech 
habits,  he  seems  to  have  little  perception  about 
the  constituents  of  phrases.  You  may  express  an 
idea  grammatically  or  ungrammatically.  If  he 
likes  the  idea  it  is  all  one  to  him ;  if  he  does  not 
like  it,  he  will  not  listen  anyway.  But  he  does 
not  need  dialect  or  incorrect  grammar  to  bring 
it  home  to  him.  Therefore,  since  your  form  is 
immaterial  to  him,  and  peculiarities  of  speech  with 
which  he  is  unfamiliar  would  only  serve  to  con- 
fuse him,  he  may  be  trusted  to  apply  his  own 
touchstone  of  naturalness  directly  to  the  idea 
expressed.     And   you  may   be   sure  it   will   be 


DIALOGUE  139 

thumbs  down  for  the  writer  who  cannot  compass 
that  inherent  naturahiess. 

Even  older  boys  and  girls  are  likely  to  object 
to  dialect  as  *'too  hard  to  read."  It  does  not 
amuse  or  interest  them  that  "Johnnie  wisht  the 
hoss  wud  git  done  with  hayin'."  Translation  is 
too  much  like  school  work.  But  Johnnie's  pe- 
culiar forms  of  wit,  slang,  or  otherwise,  are  not 
wasted  on  them,  and  if  they  decide  to  take  on 
*'Gosh  all  hemlock!"  for  awhile,  only  a  purist 
could  object.  Slang,  like  dress-styles,  has  a  way 
of  dating  an  author's  work,  and  he  who  would 
keep  his  story  ageless  would  do  well  to  avoid 
the  introduction  of  slang  of  the  period. 

Many  adults  and  almost  all  children  refuse  to 
read  dialect  when  the  words,  through  spelling  or 
unfamiliarity  with  colloquialisms,  become  too 
specialized.  Touches  of  speech  peculiarities, 
grammar,  dialect,  slang,  or  idiom,  enough  to  give 
individuality  to  the  speaker  and  make  him  amus- 
ingly real,  may  add  a  flavor  to  dialogue.  But  the 
flavor  needs  a  certain  amount  of  experience  for 
appreciation  which  little  children  lack.  One  is 
usually  safe  in  writing  for  them  to  aim  for  sim- 
plicity and  clearness  of  diction  in  dialogue  as 
well  as  in  any  other  part  of  story  telling. 

Probably  Louisa  Alcott  took  the  most  radical 
step  in  changing  the  dialogue  of  children's  books 
from  the  stilted  formal  phrases  of  the  earlier 
stories  to  those  which  at  least  approximate  real 


140  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

conversation.  Much  of  her  dialogue  may  seem 
preachy  and  unnatural  to  us  now,  but  it  was  a 
revelation  of  delight  to  the  girls  of  her  time.  An 
old  lady  tells  about  her  memory  of  the  Christmas 
morning  when  she  and  her  cousin  ran  down  the 
street  each  with  Little  Women  under  her  arm, 
exclaiming,  *'Why,  they  are  real  girls!  They  are 
bad  like  us!    They  talk  just  like  us!" 

Since  so  much  of  the  juvenile  story  is  likely  to 
be  given  in  dialogue,  it  is  even  more  essential 
than  in  the  adult  story  that  the  action  of  the  plot 
should  be  carried  ahead  by  it.  The  w^riter  may 
become  so  absorbed  in  making  his  dialogue  nat- 
ural and  character-reveahng  that  he  forgets  it 
must  always  travel  forward.  Sidetracked  by 
pride  of  spirit  in  his  humor  or  his  philosophy  or 
his  cleverness  of  characterization,  his  dialogue 
becomes  a  stagnant  pool  covered  with  unprofit- 
able scum.  Freed  from  self-consciousness,  defi- 
nite in  its  aim,  his  dialogue  flows  along  swiftly 
and  surely,  carrying  with  it  the  understanding 
and  sympathy  of  the  reader. 

Often,  in  narrative,  a  certain  amount  of  prelim- 
inary exposition  is  necessary  to  explain  the  situ- 
ation when  the  story  opens.  The  child  wants  the 
present  in  fiction.  Past  history  delays  the  action 
of  the  story  and  concerns  him  as  little  as  a  gene- 
alogical tree.  It  is  the  business  of  the  writer  to 
present  anything  essential  to  an  understanding 
of  the   story  in   as   active   a  form   as   possible. 


DIALOGUE  141 

Through  dialogue  he  can  handle  his  exposition 
by  means  of  suggestion,  he  can  dramatize  it  in 
form,  and  he  can  make  it  alive  through  the  speak- 
ers. Dialogue  puts  the  past  into  the  present  as 
it  were.  Such  handling  of  preliminary  exposition 
is  by  no  means  simple.  It  is  only  too  easy  to  slip 
into  the  old  stage  method  by  which  two  charac- 
ters recite  between  them,  or  the  old  servant  gives, 
through  monologue,  all  the  necessary  background. 
Blocks  of  informational  conversation  are  as  im- 
possible in  fiction  as  on  the  stage.  The  stilted 
and  unnatural  effect  is  the  same.  Dialogue  de- 
mands a  certain  casual  quality  to  appear  natural. 
For  this  reason  one  cannot  depend  upon  it  too 
completely  to  carry  the  entire  preliminary  expo- 
sition. In  the  adult  story  the  writer  tries  to  be 
suggestive  and  subtle,  and  not  to  reveal  that  he 
is  giving  the  situation.  With  the  child  he  has 
to  be  simple  and  straightforward.  If  the  circum- 
stances, therefore,  demand  an  involved  explana- 
tion, usually  the  writer  finds  it  expedient  for  clar- 
ity and  brevity  to  give  that  explanation  in  part 
at  least  in  straight  narrative.  If  the  reader  does 
not  need  an  immediate  possession  of  facts  as  a 
clue  to  the  story,  and  he  rarely  does,  dialogue 
serves  as  a  more  active  agent  of  presentation. 

As  the  story  goes  on,  the  writer  needs  to  bear 
in  mind  that  dialogue  is  not  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  allowing  the  characters  to  talk.  It  must 
tell  the  story  as  it  goes.    It  is  as  active  as  any 


142  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

other  form  of  action  and  its  goal  the  same  as  that 
of  the  rest  of  the  action  of  the  story,  to  solve  the 
problem.  The  author  must  constantly  curb  the 
natural  tendency  of  characters  toward  over- 
loquaciousness  and  make  them  talk  to  the  point. 

The  use  of  dialogue  demands  careful  selection 
of  its  material.  The  writer  looks  ahead  and 
chooses  a  scene  in  which  the  action  is  interesting 
and  significant  enough  to  be  given  on  a  large 
scale.  Dialogue  is  life-size  in  scale,  and  it  needs 
life  to  motivate  it. 

Sometimes  in  the  story  the  writer  finds  it  neces- 
sary to  telescope  a  scene.  It  is  not  important 
enough  or  it  is  too  involved  to  be  given  in  full 
and  yet  its  introduction  is  required  by  the  story. 
A  snatch  of  dialogue  will  give  a  sense  of  imme- 
diacy to  the  rest  of  summarized  scene,  will  amal- 
gamate it  to  the  whole  story,  and  give  the  reader 
the  sense  of  unity. 

Thus  through  the  whole  story,  dialogue  func- 
tions actively.  "With  so  many  obligations  to  ful- 
fil, it  should  never  be  encumbered  with  meaning- 
less prattle.  Nor  should  it,  through  the  author's 
sense  of  responsibility  toward  its  duties,  be 
thrown  into  stilted  and  formal  mould.  Dialogue 
is  a  form  of  writing  taken  directly  over  from  the 
child's  own  vehicle  of  self-expression.  As  such 
it  must  carry  with  it  the  characteristics  which 
mark  the  original  form  on  which  it  is  modelled. 

For  the  beginner  who  finds  dialogue  difficult  to 


DIALOGUE  143 

handle,  a  good  exercise  is  to  transpose  a  well-told 
short  story  which  gives  him  a  sense  of  the  per- 
sonality of  the  characters  and  of  swift  action 
within  a  limited  period  into  a  one-act  play.  If 
he  can  make  the  dialogue  do  all  the  work,  he  will 
be  fairly  sure  of  mastery  over  it  when  it  has  to 
shoulder  only  its  own  share  in  his  story  form. 


CHAPTER  X 

Plot 

The  construction  of  plot  in  story  writing  for 
adults  is  based  on  certain  definite  principles  ap- 
plicable to  the  adult  story  in  general.  Plot  is  plot 
whether  applied  to  the  humorous  story  or  to  the 
tragedy.  Degrees  of  complication  exist,  but  in 
general  the  form  is  that  of  dramatic  struggle.  In 
its  development,  the  adult  short  story  has  reached 
a  point  where  it  usually  centres  about  a  certain 
kind  of  conflict  which  the  student  can  analyze  as 
the  plot.  He  studies  its  principles  and  proceeds 
on  this  basis  to  construct  plots  for  himself. 

The  writer  of  children's  stories  is  not  able  to 
look  upon  plot  as  a  problem  which,  once  under- 
stood, can  be  applied  equally  well  to  any  story 
that  he  may  construct.  The  variability  of  stories 
for  children  between  babyhood  and  adolescence 
discounts  any  homogeneity  of  plot  principles. 
Yet  plot,  if  taken  in  its  simplest  definition  as 
plan,  appears  in  elementary  form  from  the  begin- 
ning and  evolves  through  rather  a  complete  series 
of  stages  into  the  adult  form  before  it  leaves  the 
profincts  of  juvenile  writing. 

Plot  applied  to  the  construction  of  a  child's 

144 


PLOT  145 

story  means  the  kind  of  plan  which  gives  the 
material  the  quality  of  being  a  unit.  It  becomes 
the  scheme  by  which  a  writer  can  take  something 
out  of  the  flux  of  existence  and  make  it  separate 
and  self-dependent.  Substance  which  was  vague 
in  outline  becomes,  through  plan,  definite  in  form. 
It  approximates  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end.  Plot  applied  in  this  sense  becomes  obviously 
a  thing  about  which  one  cannot  generalize.  The 
kind  of  plan  on  which  a  writer  would  build  a  story 
for  a  two-year-old  must  of  necessity  differ  from 
his  plan  for  an  eight-year-old  or  a  sixteen-year- 
old. 

The  little  child  has  the  constant  problem  of 
understanding  and  assimilating  the  varied  and 
enormously  puzzling  world  which  surrounds  him. 
His  power  of  attention  is  intense  rather  than 
wide;  since  so  many  things  are  strange,  he  must 
devote  himself  to  one  small  thing  at  a  time.  He 
has  little  knowledge  of  the  mysterious  law  of 
cause  and  effect;  that  is  one  of  the  many  things 
he  must  come,  slowly,  to  recognize,  but  on  the 
way  to  such  knowledge  he  is  concerned  with  small 
isolated  objects  or  actions.  Furthermore,  and 
this  must  be  a  gracious  means  of  self-protection, 
he  is  likely  to  give  his  attention  to  such  things 
as  have  in  them  some  familiar  quality.  He  is  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and  his  experience 
has  something  of  the  experience  of  a  lonely  trav- 
eller who  overhears  a  phrase  in  his  own  language, 
or  sees  in  some  foreign  market-place  a  bit  of  cos- 


146  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

tume  of  his  own  land,  or  a  Standard  Oil  sign. 
These  three  characteristics  of  the  small  child  are 
all  of  importance  in  the  stories  which  he  is  to 
hear.  Events  which  seem  slight  and  ordinary  to 
his  elders  have  interest  for  him ;  repetition,  which 
allows  his  attention  to  hang  intensely  to  one  thing 
instead  of  demanding  a  shifting  and  progressing, 
fits  his  psychology;  the  story  which  concerns  it- 
self with  familiar  material  such  as  his  breakfast, 
his  walks,  the  few  animals  he  knows,  gives  the 
child  more  satisfaction  than  the  story  unrelated 
to  his  own  experience.  And  finally,  for  the  plot 
value  of  the  child's  story,  since  complicated  re- 
lations have  no  meaning  for  him,  since  his  con- 
ception of  causal  relation  is  slight,  his  story 
must  have  simplicity  of  plan. 

The  simplest  form  of  plot  appears  in  the  stories 
which  a  mother  first  tells  her  baby.  These  are 
usually  the  "Pat  a  Cake"  story,  and  the  ''This 
Little  Pig"  story.  The  Pat  a  Cake  story  is  per- 
haps the  most  elementary  form  since  in  this  case 
the  action  of  the  child,  "pat  it  and  pat  it,  roll  it 
and  roll  it,"  illustrates  to  him  what  the  mother 
means  by  the  words.  In  the  little  pig  story  he 
has  to  imagine  a  situation  outside  of  himself. 
The  chances  are  that  "This  little  pig  went  to 
market"  means  very  little  to  him  at  first,  since 
he  may  never  have  seen  a  pig  or  a  market,  and  the 
jjhrase  connects  itself  simply  with  the  tweaking 
of  his  too.  But  at  any  rate,  here  is  a  story  of 
action  a  little  further  outside  of  himself  than  the 


PLOT  147 

Pat  a  Cake.  The  repetition  comes  in  to  give  the 
form  of  the  story,  and  the  unity;  the  alternation 
of  action,  going,  staying  at  home,  having  roast 
beef,  having  none,  keeps  the  plot  from  taxing  the 
child's  attention  by  splitting  into  too  many  is- 
sues; and  the  climax  of  enjoyment  appears  with 
the  predicament  of  "Wee,  wee,  wee,  I  can't  find 
my  way  home!"  It  can,  however,  scarcely  be 
called  the  climax  of  a  plot  since  the  five  incidents 
have  much  the  same  value  and  each  one  is  fairly 
complete  in  itself.  Plot,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  has 
as  yet  so  indefinite  a  beginning,  middle,  or  end 
that  the  casual  glance  reveals  almost  none  at  all. 
Yet  the  particular  material  in  use  is  segregated 
from  material  in  general  and  does  resolve  itself 
into  a  unit  not  entirely  nebulous  in  structure  and 
limitation. 

Very  soon  the  identification  process  begins  in 
the  baby's  mind.  He  likes  to  feel  himself  the  hero 
of  the  story.  A  friend  who  has  three  children 
tells  me  of  a  story  which  her  mother  invented  for 
them.  It  begins,  "Once  there  was  a  little  boy 
and  his  name  was  John."  John  catches  his  own 
name  and  looks  up,  interested.  ''One  day  John's 
mother  said,  'John,  would  you  like  to  go  for  a 
walk?'  John  said  he  would  like  to  go  for  a  walk. 
So  then  John's  mother  got  his  cap  and  tied  it 
dowm  over  his  ears — "  Here  the  grandmother 
always  made  the  tying  motion — "and  she  got 
his  coat  and  buttoned  it  up,"  and  so  on  through 
the   getting   ready  process.     "Then  John   went. 


148  JIA^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

out-doors  wdth  his  mother.  Pretty  soon  as  they 
were  going  along  they  saw  a  cow.  The  cow  said 
*  Moo ! '  to  John,  and  then  John  said  '  Moo ! '  to  the 
cow.  They  went  along  a  little  farther  and  they 
saw  a  dog.  The  dog  said — "  and  so  on  until  the 
grandmother  grows  tired  and  withdraws  John 
from  his  walk. 

The  characteristics  of  this  story  are  those  of 
most  stories  for  the  young  child.  Evenness  of 
interest;  a  continuous  flow  of  slight  action;  the 
possibility  of  an  end  where  the  grandmother  finds 
an  end  desirable;  the  possibility  of  being 
stretched  to  cover  a  long  period.  The  child's 
story  has  a  beginning,  but  no  identifiable  middle, 
and  no  predetermined  end.  Unlike  the  story  for 
older  readers,  it  has  no  rise  in  interest,  no  inevi- 
table conclusion.  It  has  a  plot  more  like  that  of 
the  old  picaresque  romance,  a  single  thread — 
John's  walk  in  this  case — upon  which  any  number 
of  beads  may  be  strung.  The  very  qualities  which 
make  this  story  interesting  to  the  child  would 
ruin  it  for  his  older  brother. 

In  the  Mother  Goose  stories  which  are  likely 
to  follow  the  previous  stories,  the  simple  state- 
ment of  the  plot  is  the  whole  thing.  Jack  and  Jill 
will  serve  as  well  as  any  other  to  illustrate. 


Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill 

To  fetch  a  pail  of  water. 

Jack  fell  down  and  broke  his  crown 

And  Jill  came  tumbling  after. 


PLOT  149 

Up  Jack  got  and  home  did  trot 
As  fast  as  he  could  caper, 
Went  to  bed  to  mend  his  head 
With  vinegar  and  brown  paper. 

Jill  came  in  and  she  did  grin 
To  see  Jack's  paper  plaster, 
llother,  vexed,  did  spank  her  next 
For  causing  Jack's  disaster. 

The  plan  of  the  story  is  developed  by  straight 
action.  Each  line  gives  a  fresh  impetus  to  the 
movement.  The  plot  moves  rapidly  to  a  chmax 
which  is  followed  by  what  to  Jill  at  least  must 
have  seemed  a  denouement.  The  Old  "Woman 
Who  Lived  in  a  Shoe  illustrates  the  same  direct- 
ness of  action  in  her  arrival  at  the  solution  of 
her  difficulty.  Old  Mother  Hubbard's  problem  is 
stated  with  equal  brevity.  Then  the  story  goes 
on  with  her  attempts  to  solve  it  from  one  incident 
to  another  until  the  pair  is  left  with  honors 
divided  evenly  in, 

The  dame  made  a  curtsey, 
The  dog  made  a  bow. 
The  dame  said,  "Your  servant!" 
The  dog  said,  *'Bow  wow!" 

Little  Black  Sambo  captures  his  readers  while 
young  and  holds  them  indefinitely.  The  charm  of 
the  story  lies  probably  as  much  in  its  detaii  as 
in  its  plan.  The  child  will  return  again  and  again 
to  read  about  the  "Lovely  little  Pair  of  Purple 


150  JITV^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Shoes  with  Crimson  Soles  and  Crimson  Linings.'^ 
The  action,  however,  involved  in  the  gradual  loss 
of  all  of  Little  Black  Sambo's  enchanting  details 
and  the  increasing  action  involved  in  their  recov- 
erv,  add  much  to  the  value  of  the  tale.  As  a  still 
further  asset,  repetition  appears  in  the  presen- 
tation of  the  plan  to  the  child.  Almost  every- 
thing  in  the  story  appears  more  than  once. 

Repetition  seems  entirely  to  replace  plan  or 
even  detail  in  the  Arabella  and  Araminta  Stories, 
which  hold  young  readers  enthralled.  The  plan 
is  apparently  based  on  intention  to  have  Arabella 
and  Araminta  do  something  all  the  time.  AVhat 
they  do  does  not  matter,  nor  how  many  times 
they  do  it,  except  that  each  repetition  affords 
additional  enjoyment  to  the  reader.  "Arabella 
picked  a  daisy  and  Araminta  picked  a  daisy,  and 
Arabella  i^icked  a  daisy  and  Araminta  picked  a 
daisy,  and  Arabella — "  is  the  kind  of  refrain 
which  comprises  the  plan  of  the  story.  Form 
rather  than  content  lies  behind  any  attraction 
which  the  story  may  have. 

Fairy  stories  are  pretty  completely  furnished 
with  plot.  The  plot  is,  indeed,  so  well  formulated 
that  it  is  often  used  as  a  type  or  symbol  for  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  story  plan,  as  the  Cinderella  plot, 
the  Ugly  Duckling  plot,  etc.  Many  fairy  tales 
approximate  the  adult  story  in  plot.  They  con- 
sist of  incidents  continuous  and  interlocking,  in- 
stead of  merely  casual.  They  proceed  from  a 
situation  whicli  is  ffiven  at  the  beginning  to  some 


PLOT  151 

very  definite  conclusion.  Each  incident  produces 
the  one  which  follows  it  iintil  they  work  up  to 
the  solution  of  a  given  problem.  In  addition  to 
the  main  line  of  interest  as  directed  by,  for  in- 
stance, Cinderella,  a  fairy  story  often  presents 
a  subordinate  line  of  interest  as  brought  out  by 
the  struggle  of  Cinderella's  wicked  relatives.  A 
fairy  story  is  much  more  likely  to  embody  a  com- 
plete plot  in  the  adult  story  sense  than  many  of 
the  short  stories  of  adventure  which  interest 
older  boys  and  girls. 

Such  stories  may  be  entirely  lacking  in  sub- 
ordinate interest,  thus  classifying  themselves  as 
incidents  rather  than  as  short  stories.  The  plan 
consists  of  the  character's  attempt  to  solve  a 
simple  situation.  He  gets  into  a  difficulty  and 
gets  out  of  it.  This  one  line  of  interest  may  be 
entirely  absorbing  up  to  a  question  of  life  or 
death,  and  as  it  becomes  more  elaborate  it  supplies 
the  reader  with  substance  enough  to  make  of  it 
a  good  juvenile  short  story.  A  boy  slips  unex- 
pectedly into  the  old  well  of  a  deserted  farm.  He 
has  no  one  to  help  him  out,  and  his  own  wits  and 
strength  must  save  him.  The  plan  of  the  story 
is  based  on  his  predicament  and  struggle,  which 
may  be  made  as  stormy  as  the  author  wishes; 
but  as  long  as  no  other  line  of  interest  is  involved, 
the  boy's  exigency  remains  an  incident.  Many 
of  the  brief  magazine  stories  are  of  this  charac- 
ter. 

A  juvenile  story  which  approaches  the  struc- 


152  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

ture  of  an  adult  story,  as  most  stories  of  any  pre- 
tension for  adolescents  must,  is  supplied  with  a 
complication  or  second  line  of  interest.  If,  for 
instance,  our  hero  in  the  well  has  an  important 
message  to  deliver  before  a  certain  time,  and  fail- 
ure to  do  it  spells  destruction  for  someone  else, 
his  accident  becomes  a  second  line  of  interest 
which  weaves  itself  into  the  main  story  about  the 
message  and  its  concomitants.  The  plot  has  now 
arrived  at  the  adult  story  stage  with  its  salient 
feature,  a  conflict.  The  kinds  of  conflict  and  the 
methods  of  dealing  with  them  are  again  limited 
by  the  young  reader's  experience.  For  that  rea- 
son they  are  usually  concerned  with  action.  Con- 
flict in  children's  stories  is  rarely  psychological; 
it  is  seldom  entirely  social,  though  elements  of 
both  types  of  struggle  may  be  present.  Usually 
the  conflict  is  on  a  physical  plane. 

The  kinds  of  conflict  resolve  themselves  into  a 
variety  of  combinations.  Many  adventure  stories 
are  largely  conflicts  between  the  hero  and  forces 
of  nature,  giving  us  sea  stories,  aeroplane  stories, 
castaway  stories,  the  Robinson  Crusoe  theme,  etc. 
Or  the  element  of  conflict  between  groups  of 
people  may  enter  as  a  basis  for  war  stories,  In- 
dian stories,  football  and  college  stories.  Often 
the  struggle  exists  between  persons  and  animals. 
It  may  be  a  person  and  animal  versus  an  animal, 
as  a  boy  and  his  dog  versus  a  wolf.  Kipling's 
RiJxki  Tikki  Tavi  is  a  good  illustration  of  this 
sort  of  conflict.    The  child  and  his  mongoose  are 


PLOT  153 

pitted  against  the  snake,  the  mongoose  fights  the 
snake  and  wins  safety  for  them  both.  Or  the 
conflict  may  be  a  person  and  animal  versus  an- 
other person,  or  versus  some  difficult  situation, 
as  in  London's  Michael  and  Jerry,  or  Terhune's 
Lad  stories.  Conflicts  directly  between  the  char- 
acter and  an  animal  are  less  common  and  are 
limited  usually  to  hunting  and  trapping  stories. 
A  struggle  between  animal  and  animal  gives  the 
type  of  struggle  of  Thompson-Seton's  Wild  Ani- 
mals I  Have  Known. 

Variety  within  variety  might  be  analyzed  but 
after  all  the  author  does  not  go  at  his  story  in 
that  way.  Such  classification  may  help  by  sug- 
gesting combinations,  but  it  seldom  stimulates 
creative  powder.  A  writer  does  not  think,  "I  will 
now  invent  an  animal  versus  person  story."  He 
comes  upon  a  real  or  imaginary  situation,  con- 
siders it,  says,  ''This  ought  to  make  a  good 
story,"  and  proceeds  to  bring  to  bear  on  it  all  of 
his  skill  until  he  is  satisfied  that  he  has  accom- 
plished his  end.  Then  someone  may  tell  him  that 
he  has  written  an  animal  versus  person  story,  and 
he  will  agree. 

Such  a  survey  of  the  field  is  of  help  to  the  be- 
ginner. With  its  aid  he  becomes  aware  of  the 
possibilities  open  to  his  endeavor.  He  may  find 
himself  interested  in  a  particular  combination 
suggested,  and  by  reading  some  good  stories  of 
that  kind,  acquire  a  background  and  trend  of 
thought  in  which  will  germinate  the  kind  of  story 


154  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

he  wishes  to  produce.  A  new  writer  is  often  un- 
aware of  the  particular  form  of  juvenile  fiction 
in  which  he  will  excel  until  he  has  gone  through 
a  period  of  experimentation.  A  student  who  will 
declare  that  her  metier  is  school  stories  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  her  to  write  a  fairy  story  will 
sometimes  find  on  trial  that  it  unexpectedly  af- 
fords her  a  most  adequate  vehicle  of  expression. 

Suppose,  in  order  to  illustrate  the  essentials  of 
plot  and  to  make  concrete  its  theory,  we  create 
an  adventure  story,  analyzing  its  parts  and  their 
relation  to  each  other  as  we  go  along.  The  main 
issues  presented  will  hold  true  as  they  are  ap- 
plied to  the  other  groups  of  stories.  Except  for 
a  few  points,  however,  plot  is  so  intimately  tied 
up  with  anything  else  in  the  story  which  is  living 
tissue  that  its  separate  analysis  is  much  like  the 
dissection  of  the  heart  without  any  demonstra- 
tion of  its  connections  with  the  rest  of  the  body. 

In  an  adventure  story  we  must  have  the  adven- 
turers who  acting  in  character  will  supply  the 
motive  of  the  story;  their  struggle,  which  will 
give  the  action  of  the  story ;  the  solution  of  their 
problem  which  will  give  the  outcome  of  the  story. 

Let  our  adventurer  be  Jerry  Flynn.  Suppose 
we  have  him,  while  he  is  prowling  about  in  his 
father's  old  fishing  boat,  discover  an  abandoned 
silver  mine  on  an  island,  the  title  of  which  has 
always  belonged  in  the  family  though  the  island 
is  worthless.  Jerry  comes  upon  signs  of  recent 
excavations  which  he  proceeds  to  investigate.    He 


PLOT  155 

finds  rough  men  on  the  island  and  evidences  of 
their  working  the  mine  with  profit.  In  his  con- 
flict to  regain  the  silver  mine  for  its  rightful 
owners,  the  struggle  of  the  plot  develops.  In  the 
final  satisfactory  solution  of  Jerry's  difficulties 
we  arrive  at  the  outcome. 

Meantime  within  our  story  of  Jerry  comes  the 
complication  introduced  by  the  particular  difficul- 
ties of  one  of  the  miners,  a  boy  of  Jerry's  age, 
who  is  depending  upon  the  returns  from  the  mine 
to  help  him  escape  from  an  otherwise  hopeless 
situation.  In  solving  the  difficulties  of  our  com- 
plicating character,  we  must  not  draw  the  interest 
aAvay  from  Jerry.  The  threads  of  the  plot  com- 
plication must  run  into  the  strands  of  the  main 
plot,  serving  to  strengthen  it  and  to  set  oif  its 
pattern. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  first  essential  of  a  plot, 
the  motive,  which  is  supplied  by  a  person  acting 
in  character.  Here  we  have  in  a  nutshell  the 
relation  of  characterization  to  plot.  The  charac- 
ter determines  the  plot.  Out  of  Jerry  Flynn's 
character  must  come  our  plot  if  it  is  to  be  of  any 
authentic  value.  Reality  which  is  demanded  by 
the  juvenile  reader  above  everything  else  comes 
from  adequate  motivation  of  the  character. 
Jerry  goes  about  his  problems  as  only  Jerry 
Flynn  could;  he  attacks  them  with  the  vigor  and 
originality  of  Jerry  Flynn  and  no  other.  Always 
Jerry  Flynn  is  acting  in  character  and  thus  giving 
reality  by  adequate  motivation  of  the  plot. 


156  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  second  characteristic  which  we  may  expect 
by  a  good  characterization  of  our  Jerry  is  unity. 
The  juvenile  reader  is  not  so  conscious  of  this 
desirable  attribute  as  he  is  of  reality.  But  he 
misses  it  as  sharply  if  it  is  not  there.  The  unity 
of  the  whole  plot  comes  from  our  conception  of 
a  character  as  a  person.  If  Jerry  is  a  real  per- 
son to  us,  as  we  put  him  through  the  trials  of 
his  story,  we  are  bound  to  attain  unity  of  effect 
and  unity  of  emotion.  All  of  his  reactions  will 
hang  together  instead  of  splitting  off  into  reac- 
tions such  as  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  might  have  had. 

The  third  point  which  we  should  attain  by  our 
characterization  is  interest.  Unless  Jerry  Flvnn 
is  presented  not  as  a  story  type  but  with  individ- 
uality, your  young  reader  will  have  little  interest 
in  him.  You  may  have  determined  beforehand 
that  you  wish  to  do  a  courageous  boy,  a  strong- 
willed  boy,  a  hot-tempered  boy,  any  particular 
type  of  a  boy,  but  you  must  bear  in  mind  above 
everything  else  that  you  are  doing  Jeri-y  Flynn. 
If  he  is  hot-tempered,  it  is  because  he  has  in- 
herited this  trait  from  his  father's  side  and  you 
know  all  about  it.  Thus  although  you  may  not 
take  your  reader  into  your  confidence  about  the 
origin  of  Jerry's  hot  temper,  you  present  it  to 
your  reader  as  Jerry's  particular  brand,  not  in 
any  wise  to  be  confused  with  typical  tempers. 

If  then  your  story  is  to  have  reality,  unity,  and 
interest,  the  plot  must  be  motivated  by  a  Jerry 
who  will  act  in  character.    If  you  impose  such  a 


PLOT  157 

rule  upon  yourself,  it  is  obvious  that  you  must 
know  Jerry  from  the  inside  out,  more  thoroughly 
tlian  ever  a  parent  knew  his  child.  But  of  no 
human  being  can  you  possibly  have  the  complete 
knowledge  which  is  in  the  back  of  your  mind  as 
you  write  about  the  character  of  your  own  crea- 
tion. Most  of  this  knowledge,  it  is  true,  is  strictly 
private,  but  it  lies  behind  the  action  of  your  hero, 
and  gives  him  the  power  to  motivate  a  plot  which 
is  sound  in  its  reality,  firm  in  its  unity,  and  strong 
in  its  interest. 

Suppose,  then,  that  you  have  thought  about 
Jerry  Flynn  until  he  is  the  most  completely  real 
person  you  know.  Of  all  this  information  which 
you  have  concerning  him,  how  much  does  the 
opening  of  the  plot  need  to  make  clear?  What- 
ever you  give  your  young  readers,  it  must  be 
something  which  will  interest  them  at  once.  Pre- 
liminary exposition  is  not  for  them.  A  good  open- 
ing can  contain  an  amazing  amount  of  material 
pertinent  to  the  plot  without  having  in  the  least 
the  appearance  of  being  over  stuffed. 

Jerry  Flynn  rolled  up  the  wheel  of  the  old  motor 
boat  for  the  tenth  time;  then  he  sat  back  on  his  heels 
while  he  drew  an  oily  sleeve  across  his  forehead  and 
stared  into  the  unresponsive  interior  of  the  engine. 

"Regular  FljTin  outfit,"  he  grinned.  "Guess  I  might 
as  well  go  ashore  and  get  a  swim.  Here's  Flynn 's  Folly 
right  handy." 

He  pulled  an  oar  out  from  under  the  thwarts  and 
with  a  few  muscular  strokes  paddled  himself  into  a  cove 
of  the  island. 


158  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

What  are  some  of  the  points  which  such  a  ten- 
tative opening  as  this  would  give  us  I  In  the  first 
place,  you  have  the  name  of  the  person  concerned. 
The  young  reader  likes  handles  to  take  hold  of  at 
once.  The  kind  of  name  is  important,  too.  Par- 
ents labor  under  the  disadvantage  of  naming 
their  offspring  while  they  are  still  in  the  dark 
as  to  the  idiosyncrasies  which  may  make  the 
name  highly  inappropriate.  The  author  has  no 
such  excuse  for  misappellations.  He  knows  what 
sort  of  a  person  he  has  created  and  the  name 
should  be  no  gamble  for  him. 

Jerry  Flynn  suggests  Irish  ancestry  with  the 
possibility  of  dare  devil  inheritance  which  will 
not  hesitate  to  tackle  any  adventure  that  we  have 
in  mind  for  him.  Shiftlessness  emanates  from 
the  condition  of  the  motor  boat  and  the  name  of 
the  ancestral  island.  Good  nature  seems  to  lie 
behind  the  grin  which  greets  his  failure  to  start 
the  engine.  A  husky  physical  outfit  is  necessary 
to  roll  up  a  motor  boat  wheel  ten  times  and  to 
paddle  such  a  boat  ashore  with  a  few  strokes. 
The  station  of  life  is  evidently  somewhere  near 
the  plane  of  poverty.  The  setting  of  the  story 
is,  for  the  first  scene  anyway,  on  an  island. 

Let  us  test  the  opening  of  our  plot  to  see  if  it 
fulfils  its  function.  Does  it  in  the  first  place  in- 
terest the  reader?  Boys  usually  like  the  idea  of 
running  a  motor  boat,  even  if  it  will  not  go.  They 
are  likely  to  smell  adventure  in  the  possibilities 
which  may  arise  from  landing  alone  on  an  island. 


PLOT  159 

Brawny  Jerry  Flynn  sounds  like  "sometliing 
doing." 

The  *' something  doing"  is  the  second  test 
which  our  opening  must  pass.  Does  it  start  ac- 
tion? The  hero  certainly  is  moving  toward  the 
centre  from  which  one  may  expect  action  to 
emanate. 

Third,  have  we  succeeded  in  striking  the  key- 
note of  the  story?  To  do  this  we  must  have  be- 
gun our  characterization  of  Jerry,  we  must  have 
given  the  setting  for  his  action,  and  must  have 
begun  our  theme. 

In  presenting  a  person  in  character  to  a  juve- 
nile reader,  the  writer  may  make  use  of  a  piece 
of  description  to  open  his  plot.  Suppose  we  be- 
gan our  story : 

A  small  motor  boat  lay  motionless  in  the  middle  of 
the  bay.  At  the  wheel,  struggling  to  start  the  engine, 
was  a  strong,  muscular  looking  boy  named  Jerry  FljTin. 
He  had  a  good  natured  grin  as  he  worked.  Near  at 
hand  lay  a  small  island  which  belonged  to  his  grand- 
father and  which  because  of  some  worthless  silver 
mines  was  called  Fl3ain's  Folly,  It  had  several  good 
coves — etc. 

Obviously  such  an  opening  does  not  grip  the 
interest  to  any  great  degree.  Description,  when 
we  use  it  to  open  a  juvenile  story,  must  be  de- 
scription in  action.  Passive  description  is  not 
for  the  young,  especially  if  of  the  male  sex. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  present  our  character 
in  action  at  once,  we  must  be  careful  not  to  rely 


160  JUVEXILE  STORY  WRITING 

too  much  on  the  child's  interpretation.  The  older 
the  reader,  the  more  you  can  leave  to  him.  Any- 
one who  has  taken  a  child  to  a  play  knows  how 
difficult  it  is  for  him  to  grasp  immediately  what 
the  characters  are  doing.  In  the  same  way,  the 
dramatic  method  of  unexplained  conversation 
which  demands  immediate  inference  may  fall 
short  of  the  child's  comprehension. 

In  any  case  if  we  bear  in  mind  that  we  wish 
to  open  with  something  vital  to  the  plot,  we  shall 
not  allow  ourselves  to  wander  into  wordy  descrip- 
tion or  to  clip  the  speech  of  our  characters  into 
unintelligible  jargon. 

If  we  have  satisfactorily  supplied  the  first  es- 
sential of  our  plot,  its  motive,  by  creating  a  Jerry 
who  will  act  in  character,  the  next  point  to  con- 
sider is  how  to  present  this  action  which  makes 
the  plot  in  the  most  dramatic  vivid  way.  If  you 
ask  a  beginner  to  outline  to  you  a  story  which  he 
has  in  mind,  he  will  at  once  attempt  to  tell  you 
about  the  story.  He  seldom,  until  he  is  well  in 
training,  sees  action  in  scenes.  Until  his  story 
formulates  itself  into  clear-cut  scenes  locating  and 
concentrating  the  action  into  limited  space  much 
as  scenes  are  set  on  the  stage,  the  effect  of  the 
tale  is  likely  to  be  diluted  through  the  admixture 
of  much  telling. 

In  a  short  story  the  question  arises  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  changing  scenes  often.  Some  of  the 
most  able  short  stories  for  adults  are  given  to  the 
reader  in  one  scene,  the  cross  section  of  an  imme- 


PLOT  IGl 

diate  situation.  With  skill  the  author  is  able  to 
imply  enough  jjast  and  future  to  illuminate  the 
moment  sufficiently,  Such  descrijjtive  details  as 
he  has,  gather  added  jjower  because  they  are  ap- 
plicable to  the  whole  story.  His  decks  are  cleared 
for  pure  narrative. 

Like  any  cross  section,  however,  in  science  or 
in  art,  some  interpretation  by  the  observer  is 
necessary.  The  zoologist  who  examines  under  the 
microscope  the  cross  section  of  a  frog's  egg 
gathers  the  significance  of  its  present  state  be- 
cause his  cytological  experience  has  taught  him 
the  general  significance  of  cell  development.  The 
child,  however,  has  rather  a  limited  life  experi- 
ence as  yet  to  call  upon.  Over-conciseness  re- 
quires too  much  of  him  in  the  way  of  inference. 
He  needs  to  be  led  more  gradually  to  the  climax, 
to  see  the  steps  by  which  it  has  come. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  writer  changes  his 
scenes  too  often,  he  runs  into  the  weakness  of 
telling  about  his  story  rather  than  giving  the 
story.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  length  of  time 
covered  by  the  short  story  somewhat  limits  its 
scenic  effects.  It  is  bound  to  be  more  or  less  tele- 
scoped. Even  if  intervals  of  time  are  necessary 
between  the  beginning  and  end,  they  are  some- 
what assumed  rather  than  described.  Many  years 
elapsed  before  the  Pope's  Mule  compassed  his 
kick,  but  neither  the  kick  nor  the  story  suffered. 

The  story  of  Jerry  Flynn  can  scarcely  be  at- 
tained in  one  setting.    Much  could  be  done  wdth 


162  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

this  first  island  scene,  but  it  is  possible  that  Jerry 
will  have  to  make  connections  with  the  mainland 
and  his  family  on  the  farm  before  we  can  arrive 
at  an  adequate  solution  of  the  plot.  Or  even  if 
you  as  the  author  wish  to  make  Jerry  the  arbiter 
of  the  entire  story,  as  he  well  might  be,  he  can 
scarcely  manage  so  complicated  an  affair  at  one 
sitting. 

Suppose  we  give  Jerry  one  scene  on  the  island 
in  which  he  finds  the  evidence  of  the  reclaiming 
of  the  old  silver  mine  and  becomes  aware  of  the 
dangerous  character  of  the  intruders.  If  we  de- 
cide not  to  let  his  engine  work,  he  may  have,  as 
a  corollary  of  this  scene,  a  secret  night  interview 
with  the  complicating  boy,  who  might  swim  out 
to  the  motor  boat  where  Jerry  plans  to  spend  the 
night.  As  a  result  of  this  interview  Jerry  may 
find  it  expedient  to  make  a  quick  getaway  which, 
considering  the  difficulties  and  the  darkness,  may 
become  the  setting  of  a  very  dramatic  scene. 

The  student  can  now  see  that  the  arrangement 
of  the  further  scenes  depends  upon  the  develop- 
ment of  the  future  action.  If  the  author  wishes 
Jerry  to  work  this  difficulty  out  without  help,  the 
scene  structure  is  nearly  over.  If  someone  else 
is  to  enter  the  conflict,  the  plot  will  require 
further  setting. 

The  writer,  as  he  plans  a  story,  would  usually 
do  well  to  make  a  list  of  scenes  which  seem  es- 
sential to  him  to  bring  out  the  action  of  the  story. 
Then  as  the  story  progresses,  he  should  cut  out 


PLOT  163 

as  many  of  the  scenes  as  possible.  Almost  always 
the  author  cuts  instead  of  expanding.  The  story 
concentrates  as  it  becomes  definite  in  his  mind. 
Instead  of  filling  the  receptacle  with  a  pale  blur, 
it  precipitates  and  takes  form  in  clear  crystals. 

Selection  becomes  almost  as  important  as  crea- 
tion. The  writer,  who  feels  that  he  must  make 
use  of  every  good  point  he  has  thought  of,  is  being 
economical  after  the  fashion  of  the  housewife  who 
saves  everything.  He  will  achieve  much  the  same 
cluttered  effect.  Keal  ideas  ought  never  to  be 
thrown  away— they  are  too  rare!— but  selection 
of  those  pertinent  to  the  theme  and  capable  of 
heightening  it  is  an  essential  of  story  writing. 
Scenes  and  details  need  to  be  sorted  over  care- 
fully before  the  final  choice  is  made. 

The  way  in  which  the  author  manages  the  selec- 
tion of  details  is  a  decisive  factor  in  whether  he 
can  present  the  action  of  his  plot  in  the  most 
vivid  way.  Two  things  are  obvious:  he  cannot 
give  all  the  details,  and  he  cannot  compress  them 
into  a  summary  because  either  method  would 
bore  his  reader. 

Economy  of  detail  is  a  fairly  safe  suggestion, 
much  may  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  child. 
He  is,  it  is  true,  quite  insatiable  when  he  is  learn- 
ing about  the  way  in  which  a  thing  is  made ;  then 
one  may  be  as  detailed  as  a  receipt.  But  his  im- 
agination is  frequently  far  less  trammelled  than 
yours  and  he  likes  to  use  it.  Youngsters  usually 
care  very  little  about  details  which  pertain  to 


164  JFV'ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

previous  history.  They  want  to  know  what  is 
going  on  now  or  what  is  likely  to  happen  next. 
The  present  and  the  future  belong  to  youth. 

A  history  of  how  Jerry's  ancestors  happened 
to  buy  the  island  and  why  they  gave  up  mining 
it  and  what  their  losses  were,  at  its  best,  if  told 
vi\^dly  enough  to  hold  the  reader's  attention, 
would  serve  only  to  sidetrack  it  from  the  main 
issue.  At  its  worst  it  would  be  dull  enough  to 
keep  him  from  finishing  the  story. 

All  that  is  distracting  should  be  omitted.  In 
a  short  story  everything  must  focus  on  the  plot 
and  no  matter  how  entertaining  an  extraneous 
detail,  it  should  be  cut  out. 

Beginners  almost  invariably  need  a  stern 
course  in  selection.  They  have  to  come  to  a  real' 
ization  of  the  restriction  of  time  and  space  in  the 
short  story.  They  learn  that  a  kerosene  lamp  has 
more  effect  if  it  is  set  in  the  middle  of  a  room 
than  if  placed  in  a  window.  Limiting  scenes  and 
details,  it  is  comforting  to  remember,  becomes  less 
painful  as  the  skill  increases.  The  process  of 
pruning  is  likely  to  have  a  strengthening  effect 
on  the  surviving  parts. 

It  may  seem  from  the  emphasis  on  simplicity 
and  the  urgency  placed  on  selection  and  limitation 
that  anything  in  the  way  of  complication  of  our 
plot  will  serve  to  counteract  the  effects  which  we 
are  working  to  obtain.  As  wo  have  already 
pointed  out,  a  juvenile  story  may  complete  itself 
perfectly  well  without  any  complication  or  sec- 


PLOT  165 

ondary  interest.  Suppose  we  told  the  story  of 
Jerry's  discovery,  forced  him  into  a  single- 
handed  struggle  and  left  him  either  a  winner  or 
a  loser  of  his  silver  mine.  We  should  have  told 
the  story  in  the  form  of  an  incident  with  one  line 
of  interest,  with  no  entanglement  or  intermingling 
of  parts.  Such  an  incident,  told  with  sufficient 
vigor,  might  have  the  basis  of  a  short  story.  But 
what  the  incident  gains  in  simplicity,  it  loses  by 
its  isolation.  If  two  people  participate  in  an  ex- 
ploit, the  action  is  more  than  doubled.  Moreover 
it  acquires  significance.  "What  an  individual  does 
strictly  by  himself  or  for  himself  is  of  very  little 
importance  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  When  we 
come  to  write  our  book,  we  shall  see  that  a  novel 
would  become  meagre  to  the  starvation  point  if 
it  tried  to  subsist  on  the  one  main  plot.  One  or 
more  sub-plots  are  bound  to  enter  in.  In  much 
the  same  way  a  story  of  any  pretension  needs  a 
complication  to  lift  it  out  of  the  mere  incident 
form  and  to  endow  it  with  the  significance  of  hu- 
man reahty.  We  may  as  well,  therefore,  consider 
complication  here  if  we  mean  to  go  beyond  the 
narration  of  the  incident. 

The  use  of  complication  brings  with  it  certain 
obligations.  If  the  writer  is  going  to  introduce 
a  second  line  of  interest,  he  must  look  far  enough 
ahead  to  be  sure  that  he  is  going  to  be  able  to 
weave  this  thread  into  the  main  tissue  of  the  plot. 
By  the  end  of  his  story  it  will  have  to  be  so  in- 


166  jm^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

tegral  a  part  of  the  whole  that,  removed,  the  story 
would  ravel  out  into  rags. 

Suppose  we  decide  to  single  out  from  the  group 
of  interlopers  on  the  island  a  boy  whom  the 
miners  call  "Sis."  The  name  "Sis"  implies 
certain  characteristics  which  may  or  may  not  be 
true  of  this  boy  according  to  the  author's  knowl- 
edge of  him.  Let  us,  on  this  tentative  piece  of 
structure,  choose  to  have  the  boy's  distaste  for 
the  sort  of  things  which  the  men  make  him  do 
be  the  basis  for  his  actions  which  have  given  him 
this  nickname.  Our  business  will  be  to  prove 
that  he  is  quite  the  contrary  of  a  sissy.  The 
author  must  know  by  now  how  "Sis"  came  to 
be  with  these  men,  who  he  really  is,  what  sort 
of  a  boy  he  is,  what  he  w^ants,  etc.  But  he  is 
by  no  means  ready  to  confide  his  knowledge  to 
his  reader.  It  will  be  time  enough  for  the  reader 
to  know  when  Jerry  finds  out  himself,  and  should 
be  much  more  interesting  coming  through  him. 

"Sis"  has  been  left  in  charge  while  the  men 
have  gone  to  the  mainland  for  a  piece  of  machin- 
ery and  some  supplies.  He  goes  off  in  the  woods 
to  read  in  peace.  Jerry,  therefore,  finds  the  place 
curiously  deserted  though  bearing  evidence  of 
occupancy.  He  builds  a  fire  on  the  beach  to  roast 
some  clams  which  he  has  dug  and  becomes  aware 
that  his  smoke  has  attracted  an  ol^server.  He 
flings  a  good-natured  greeting  at  the  figure  which 
he  realizes  is  hiding  behind  the  rocks  and  finds 
himself  looking  into  the  muzzle  of  an  undeniably 


PLOT  1G7 

wavering  gun.  Jerry's  quick  wit  continues  its 
raillery  and  finally  gets  a  sullen  response  from 
*'Sis,"  who  lowers  the  gun  and  comes  out.  The 
main  character  and  the  complicating  character 
have  now  entered  the  story.  Each  one  has  a 
problem  but  these  two  problems  instead  of  run- 
ning as  parallel  lines  must  converge  until  at  the 
climax  they  become  unified  into  the  one  final 
situation  for  both,  Jerry's  struggle  will  very 
likely  be  intensified  and  made  more  difficult  by 
his  association  with  *'Sis"  and  his  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility for  him.  But  on  the  other  hand,  his 
experience  will  become  enriched  by  human  contact 
without  which  the  emotional  quality  of  the  story 
is  lacking. 

We  must  now  consider  *'Sis"  in  the  light  of 
his  connection  with  the  outcome  which  he  may 
determine  and  in  which  at  any  rate  he  has  con- 
siderable interest.  Jerry  extracts  from  "Sis" 
some  meagre  and  reluctant  information  about  the 
worthless  uncle  who  holds  him  here  on  the  island 
with  the  promise  of  freedom  and  school  as  soon 
as  the  mine  has  paid  them  enough.  "Sis"  mean- 
time is  forced  to  furnish  the  funds  from  a  small 
inheritance.  The  character  sketch  of  the  uncle 
suggests  to  Jerry  that  it  would  be  well  for  him 
to  be  off.  Just  as  his  dingy  rounds  the  point 
which  hides  his  own  motor  boat,  he  hears  the 
chug  of  the  returning  boat.  He  slips  unseen  into 
his  boat,  but  though  he  tries  every  device,  it  re- 
fuses to  start.     Finally  to  his  chagrin  he  finds 


168  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

that  his  gas  tank  is  empty.  He  settles  down  for 
the  night.  This  leads  up  to  the  scene  of  the  night 
visit  from  "Sis"  with  his  warning.  "Sis"  man- 
ages with  much  difficulty  to  get  a  can  of  gasoline 
from  his  Uncle's  boat  for  Jerry.  Jerry  tows  his 
boat  w^ell  out  before  he  dares  start  the  noise  of 
the  engine.  He  fears  for  "Sis"  if  his  visit  is 
discovered. 

Since  a  juvenile  story  is  usually  weakened  by 
introducing  adults  in  order  to  solve  the  problems, 
suppose  we  have  Jerry  living  with  a  feeble  old 
grandfather  who  could  be  of  no  help  to  him  any- 
way. His  only  use  will  be  as  a  proof  of  the 
ownership  of  the  island.  The  little  fishing  village 
is  miles  from  a  lawyer  and  Jerry,  therefore,  must 
manage  the  situation  with  no  help  except  that  of 
"Sis"  if  he  can  get  it.  We  are  now  ready  to 
work  up  the  struggle  to  a  climax  which  will  lead 
to  the  solution. 

Jerry's  conflict  is  made  intricate  by  several 
things.  The  island  and  the  silver  mine  are  his 
through  his  grandfather  who  lost  all  his  money 
getting  the  mine  into  such  shape  that  it  is  now 
easy  for  these  trespassers  to  go  on  and  make 
money  from  it.  The  Flynn  house  is  falling  into 
decay  and  Jerry  is  hold  there  helpless  by  the 
need  of  the  old  man.  To  regain  the  silver  mine 
will  mean  a  chance  in  life  for  Jerry.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  apparently  will  take  away  any  chance 
from  "Sis."  The  men  have  repaired  the  old 
machinery  and  installed  new,  as  Jerry  himself 


PLOT  169 

never  could  have  done.  Without  means  for  work- 
ing the  mine,  it  is  of  no  use.  Yet  on  the  other 
hand  Jerry  knows  that  it  would  not  take  lonfi;  to 
interest  someone  with  money  in  a  mine  that 
showed  evidence  of  activity. 

The  writer  may  have  Jerry  ponder  these  things 
and  after  an  amicable  visit  to  the  island  decide 
to  go  halves  on  the  plant  with  the  men.  Such  a 
moral  struggle  and  tame  climax  would  not,  how- 
ever, interest  boys.  Jerry  will  have  to  be  plunged 
into  a  physical  struggle  as  well,  short  and  sharp 
to  suit  the  length  of  the  story.  He,  with  "Sis" 
wiio  has  stood  by  him,  must  be  left  victors  in  the 
field,  the  villians  routed.  Then  "Sis,"  whose 
patrimony  has  furnished  the  funds  so  far  for  the 
mine,  and  Jerry,  who  owns  it,  are  left  partners 
with  highly  interesting  prospects  ahead  of  them. 
The  climax  of  the  story  which  comes  with  the 
victory  of  the  boys  leads  to  a  conclusion  which 
deals  satisfactorily  with  everybody  concerned. 
The  writer  must  be  skilful  enough  to  arrange  his 
material  so  that  the  victory  of  the  two  boys  be- 
comes plausible,  which  means,  of  course,  that  it 
cannot  be  a  purely  physical  combat.  The  intro- 
duction of  the  points  of  real  ownership  of  the 
mine  and  of  the  real  source  of  the  funds  will  be 
important.  Note,  however,  that  these  two  factors 
which  determine  the  solution  of  the  story's  prob- 
lem are  the  basis  of  the  separate  problems  of  the 
main  and  complicating  characters.    The  problems 


170         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

of  the  characters  have  become  unified  into  a 
single  solution  which  finishes  the  story. 

The  introduction  of  "Sis"  with  the  working 
out  of  his  difficulties  has  enriched  the  story  of 
Jerry  by  its  added  human  interest.  It  has  left 
the  situation,  as  boys  like  to  have  it  left,  in  the 
hands  of  their  peers.  By  reducing  the  number  of 
the  older  men  to  two,  the  story  is  not  littered  up 
by  many  characters.  Of  these,  close  characteriz- 
ation is  necessary  only  for  the  two  boys ;  the  uncle 
is  hit  off  sufficiently  by  *'Sis's"  description  of 
him  to  Jerry,  and  his  companion  is  unimportant. 
They  must  be  real  people  standing  out  as  indi- 
viduals but  their  characterization  should  be  as 
brief  as  it  is  adequate.  If  our  story  has  been 
handled  with  skill,  we  should  have  proved  by  the 
time  we  have  finished  it,  our  earlier  thesis  about 
the  importance  of  characterization. 

In  an  adventure  story,  although  the  emphasis 
is  on  action,  characterization  plays  as  important 
a  part  as  in  any  other  kind  of  story.  If  you  set 
up  two  indeterminate  figures,  no  matter  how 
much  action  you  force  them  into,  they  will  remain 
puppets  and  the  movement  of  your  story  will 
have  no  more  spontaneity  and  naturalness  than 
if  you  pulled  their  strings.  Jerry's  daring  and 
vigor  are  characteristics  which  we  have  selected 
to  force  him  into  a  dangerous  situation  and  to 
get  him  out  of  it.  His  good  humor  and  winning 
Irish  wit  have  captured  *'Sis"  for  him,  and  thus 
influence  the  outcome  of  the  story.  *'Sis,"  phys- 
ically inferior  to  Jerry,  quiet,  book-loving,  sullen 


PLOT  171 

through  ill-treatment  and  unhappiness,  but 
equipped  with  an  unsuspected  wire  of  courage, 
in  his  turn  directs  events  through  his  characteris- 
tics. The  uncle,  brutal,  unprincipled,  but  a  cow- 
ard as  well  as  a  bully,  fights  for  the  things  for 
which  he  stands.  Jerry  could  not  relinquish  his 
rights,  "Sis"  could  not  fail  him  at  the  crisis,  the 
uncle  could  not  summon  courage  to  face  the  con- 
sequences of  defiance  of  the  law.  Thus  your  story 
is  determined  for  you  by  your  characters.  Your 
job  is  to  make  it  convincing  to  your  readers. 

Anyone  with  a  fairly  active  imagination  can 
conjure  up  a  story  plot  which  will  be  no  more 
and  no  less  interesting  than  the  foregoing  until 
it  is  taken  in  hand  by  the  creative  writer.  At 
this  point  it  is  usual  to  say,  *' Writing  is  a  gift 
that  cannot  be  taught."  The  chances  are  that  a 
person  with  a  low  intelligence  quotient  would  not 
be  able  to  produce  a  story  of  any  great  power 
and  beauty.  That  people  with  low  intelligence 
quotients  do  write  stories  is  unquestionably  true. 
One  has  only  to  read  the  magazines  to  know  it. 
But  one  should  bear  in  mind  that  a  large  propor- 
tion of  their  readers  would  measure  even  lower. 

It  is  true  also  that  an  intelligent  person  who  is 
hopelessly  unimaginative  would  do  well  to  keep 
to  the  writing  of  articles  and  essays.  But  the  in- 
telligent imaginative  person,  who  has  lived  long 
enough  to  have  acquired  some  experience  and  who 
wants  to  write,  is  likely  to  do  it.  On  the  way  to 
achievement,  he  may  be  saved  some  roundabout 


172         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

paths  if  he  is  given  certain  direction.  Early  in 
my  own  writing  a  brilliant  author  said  to  me 
rather  quizzically,  *'No  matter  how  impossible 
your  situation,  you  can  make  it  real  if  you  know 
how  to  select  your  detail." 

AMien  a  writer  has  gained  the  ability  to  use 
vivid  detail,  original  in  its  expression  without 
being  labored,  he  is  well  on  the  way  toward  the 
acquisition  of  style.  But  to  give,  one  must  get. 
Behind  vivid  expression  lies  quickened  experi- 
ence. The  youngster  derives  much  experience 
through  the  use  of  his  senses.  If  you  wish  to 
make  those  experiences  relive  for  him,  or  to  put 
him  in  touch  with  new  ones,  you  must  arouse  his 
associations.  The  chapter  on  the  use  of  detail 
deals  with  this  problem  of  the  writer  to  make 
vivid  and  real  his  story.  The  principles  of  the 
use  of  concrete  detail  apply  to  the  story  of  Jerry 
or  to  any  other  story.  They  give  to  the  story  its 
flavor,  color,  realism,  convincing  quahty. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Theme 

The  unity  of  the  plot,  we  have  already  ob- 
served, depends  upon  our  conception  of  the  mo- 
tivating character  as  a  real  person.  Jerry  Flynn, 
acting  in  character,  swings  his  story  into  a  kind 
of  rhythm  which  is  peculiar  to  him.  By  action 
which  is  harmonious  a  theme  is  evolved  not  unlike 
the  theme  of  a  piece  of  music.  It  runs  through 
the  story,  influences  the  movement,  and  finally 
tests  the  result  which  we  are  working  to  obtain, 
unity  of  effect  and  emotion.  Defined  very  simply, 
this  theme  is  the  underlying  idea  of  the  story. 
The  chief  trait  of  the  character  worldng  on  the 
situation  in  which  he  is  evolved  furnishes  the 
general  theme. 

The  story  of  Jerry  Flynn,  like  many  of  the 
stories  for  children,  is  primarily  an  action  story. 
As  such,  the  theme  consists  of  the  effect  of  cer- 
tain traits  worked  out  through  well  motivated 
convincing  acts.  Courage  and  wit,  which  extri- 
cate their  owner  from  a  difficult  situation,  be- 
come in  a  general  way  the  theme  of  our  Jerry 
story.  The  story  will  not  be  finished  until  this 
theme  is  attested  to.    For  example,  suppose  Jerry 

173 


174  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

goes  through  the  part  of  the  story  which  deals 
with  the  discovery  of  the  men  working  the  old 
silver  mine,  and  starts  home  in  his  motor  boat 
after  his  interview  with  "Sis."  On  the  way  a 
bad  storm  comes  up,  the  old  engine  gives  out,  and 
Jerry  is  capsized  and  drowned.  Obviously  the 
story  is  finished  as  far  as  he  is  concerned.  But 
have  we  really  said  anything?  Is  the  reader  to 
infer  that  boys  should  not  go  in  motor  boats,  or 
that  relatives  should  not  acquire  islands  with 
old  silver  mines,  or  that  the  inquiring  mind  w^U 
meet  disaster,  or  what?  The  plot  must  say  some- 
thing, and  if  we  finish  Jerry  off  in  this  fashion, 
it  does  not.  No  problem  has  been  worked  out, 
no  conclusive  statement  can  be  formulated  about 
the  situation;  we  have  proved  nothing.  But  if 
Jerry  through  his  predominating  qualities  of  wit 
and  courage  succeeds  in  dominating  the  situation 
and  making  it  deliver  to  him  success  for  "Sis" 
and  himself,  the  theme  has  been  made  to  yield  a 
plot  which  has  unity  and  drama. 

Theme,  therefore,  takes  on  an  important  func- 
tion in  the  structure  of  a  story.  Its  importance, 
however,  like  much  that  is  vital  to  any  kind  of 
life,  is  closely  bound  up  with  its  inconspicuous- 
ness.  A  theme  which  resolves  a  story  into  an 
argument  for  an  idea  or  a  plea  for  a  desirable 
quality  has  defeated  its  own  end.  A  child's  story 
is  usually  an  attempt  to  answer  what  is  right  and 
best.  The  attempt  to  make  this  answer  clear  be- 
yond any  possibility  of  doubt  to  the  child  has 


THEME  175 

been  a  source  of  the  endless  supply  of  moral  tales 
for  the  young. 

The  simple  way  of  teaching  successfully  a  les- 
son to  the  child  who  runs  away  is  to  tell  him  about 
the  little  boy  who  ran  away  and  in  consequence 
met  disaster.  The  uncreative  parent  is  unable  to 
produce  a  supply  of  these  stories  equal  to  his 
need  of  them  but  he  has  much  assistance  from 
writers.  Whether  the  child  takes  to  heart  the 
immediate  and  inevitable  connection  between  sin 
and  punishment  in  fiction  is  one  question;  if  he 
is  an  intelligent  youth  he  will  possibly  observe 
that  truth  is  somewhat  distorted,  that  punishment 
is  too  neat.  In  any  case  he  is  likely  to  resent 
being  preached  at.  He,  like  his  elders,  feels  that 
fiction  is  something  to  enjoy.  The  theme  story  in 
adult  form  seeks  to  suggest  artfully  the  underly- 
ing argument.  Its  writer  knows  that  only  a  good 
story  can  get  over  a  good  idea.  "With  the  child, 
even  more  than  with  adults,  life  is  regulated  by 
action.  When  we  seek  to  reach  him  by  the  writ- 
ten word  we  are  using  a  method  of  approach 
which  is  foreign  to  his  present  state  of  develop- 
ment. The  pure  theme  story,  as  an  influential 
factor  in  his  youthful  career,  is  likely  to  meet 
resentment  or  indifference.  If,  however,  the  au- 
thor uses  the  same  care  which  he  knows  would  be 
necessary  in  an  adult  story,  he  can  reach  the  child 
through  his  imagination.  It  would  be  inartistic 
as  well  as  mistaken  policy  in  our  Jerry  story  to 
hammer  once  on  the  idea  that  wicked  impostors 


176  JUVENILE  STORY  \\TIITING 

like  the  men  on  the  island  are  bound  to  meet  de- 
feat in  the  hands  of  those  whom  they  seek  to  de- 
fraud. Besides,  of  course,  it  would  not  be  the 
truth.  But  that  determination  and  resourceful- 
ness if  properly  applied  do  in  this  case  accom- 
plish the  ends  of  justice  is  a  theme  which  might 
influence  a  boy  to  choose  those  weapons  rather 
than  the  passive  attitude  of  *'Sis,"  if  he  were 
confronted  by  a  critical  situation.  His  imagina- 
tion rather  than  his  intellect  supplies  the  wire 
over  which  our  theme  current  must  enter. 

The  theme  story  as  a  purely  didactic  produc- 
tion, then,  is  a  failure.  The  story  without  a  theme 
is  equally  a  failure.  But  a  story  wiiich  is  held 
together  by  a  theme,  directed  by  it,  evolved  from 
it,  and  which  at  the  same  time  keeps  the  theme 
in  abeyance  to  its  action  has  a  good  chance  at 
success. 

If  stories  may  be  evolved  from  themes,  then 
themes  should  prove  a  prolific  source  of  plots. 
Evidence  of  their  usefulness  in  this  direction  is 
afforded  when  a  theme  is  presented  to  a  class 
with  the  demand  for  an  accompanying  plot.  Each 
writer  is  likely  to  have  his  own  individual  reac- 
tion toward  the  theme  as  far  as  the  emphasis  goes 
in  his  plan.  Suppose  for  example  that  we  take 
the  theme,  **A  person  likes  to  have  something 
which  he  can  call  his  own."  The  writer  whose 
tendency  is  toward  emphasis  of  the  theme  itself 
might  evolve  some  such  plot  as  this : 

Mary,  a  member  of  a  large  family  who  has  al- 


THEME  177 

ways  shared  her  sister's  room,  wants  a  room  of 
her  own,  more  than  anything  else.  After  much 
effort,  her  mother  manages  to  let  her  have  a  small 
attic  room.  Mary  spends  all  of  her  time  and  al- 
lowance in  making  the  room  pretty  and  comfort- 
able. Just  as  it  is  ready  for  occupation,  her  old 
aunt,  who  is  poor  and  crotchety,  writes  to  ask 
if  she  may  come  there,  as  she  has  no  other  place 
to  go.  Mary's  room  is  the  only  vacant  spot.  The 
aunt  is  in  great  need.  Mary's  struggle  is  be- 
tween her  desire  to  have  something  of  her  own 
and  her  realization  of  her  aunt's  need.  The 
writer  may  emphasize  the  poignancy  of  the  strug- 
gle, and  solve  the  story  by  Mary's  unselfish  re- 
linquishing of  the  room  to  her  aunt.  In  that  solu- 
tion Mary  can  realize  that  a  comfortable  state  of 
mind  is  a  more  desirable  possession  than  the 
room.  The  theme  has  evolved  somewhat  from  the 
first  statement.  Mary  desires  a  room  of  her  own, 
but  her  most  important  desire  is  for  a  satis- 
factory peace  of  mind. 

Suppose  the  tendency  of  the  writer  is  to  empha- 
size action  in  a  story.  He  may  develop  the  orig- 
inal theme  as  follows:  John  is  a  timid  boy  who 
has  never  had  anything  of  his  own.  He  becomes 
obsessed  by  the  desire  to  owm  a  bicycle.  He  earns 
the  money  for  it  with  great  difficulty  because  of 
his  shyness.  The  climax  of  the  story  comes  when 
he  is  roused  to  physical  fight  to  retain  possession 
of  this  bicycle,  the  first  thing  he  has  ever  pos- 
sessed. 


178  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

If  the  emphasis  of  the  story  is  on  character,  the 
writer  may  develop  his  theme  into  a  story  domi- 
nated by  a  young  girl  who  exliibits  a  growing 
tendency  to  wish  to  own  things.  As  she  covets 
and  collects,  the  propensity  works  back  on  her 
character,  and  she  begins  to  develop  all  sorts  of 
undesirable  traits.  The  effect  on  her  character 
of  over-valuation  of  things  will  make  the  basis 
of  the  story,  which  will  probably  end  with  her 
realization  of  their  proper  place  in  the  universe. 
Here,  too,  the  original  theme  has  been  altered  into 
the  statement  that  a  person's  desire  for  material 
possessions  is  disastrous  unless  it  is  curbed. 

Suppose  a  writer  has  in  mind  a  story  in  which 
atmosphere  would  play  an  important  part.  A 
child  is  taken  to  China  where  he  finds  nothing 
familiar  or  pleasant  in  the  way  of  play  or  work. 
He  becomes  almost  ill  from  homesickness.  One 
day  his  father  brings  him  from  a  visiting  Ameri- 
can ship  a  Boston  terrier  puppy.  The  dog  stands 
for  home  and  for  something  of  his  very  own  in  a 
strange  land  where  nothing,  not  even  the  lan- 
guage, is  his.  The  puppy  wanders  away  one  day 
into  a  Chinese  slum.  The  boy  searches  for  him, 
and  finds  him  in  a  little  coolie  hut.  If  the  writer 
knows  his  material  he  will  be  able  to  invest  this 
story  with  considerable  atmosphere. 

Such  a  story  in  more  ordinary  surroundings 
could  easily  transfer  the  emphasis  to  the  emo- 
tional effect.  Suppose  for  example,  a  newsboy 
picks  up  a  mongrel  pup  and  the  two  form  a  boy- 


THEME  179 

dog  partnership.  The  dog  is  the  only  thing  the 
boy  has  ever  had  any  sort  of  claim  upon.  The 
relative  who  allows  Tim  a  corner  to  sleep  in  re- 
fuses to  keep  the  dog.  Tim  takes  his  pup  and 
starts  forth  on  his  own.  His  adventures  might 
serve  as  a  long  story,  or  be  terminated  in  a  climax 
through  the  arrest  of  Tim  and  his  dog  as  vagrants 
and  their  subsequent  release  and  new  start 
through  one  of  Tim's  old  newspaper  customers. 

Thus  one  theme,  with  its  possible  variations, 
will  yield  many  plots  which  will  differ  as  the  tend- 
ency toward  certain  kinds  of  emphasis  differs  in 
the  writers.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  one  who  is 
reading  this  chapter  would  have  created  exactly 
the  same  plot  as  any  of  those  presented,  and  he 
probably  would  have  been  able  to  invent  just  as 
many  and  just  as  varied  plots  if  the  theme  had 
been  presented  to  him.  The  question  comes  to 
the  writer  then,  what  kinds  of  themes  and  what 
sorts  of  emphasis  are  desirable  and  suitable  for 
children? 

The  interests  of  children  are  so  wide  and  so 
alive  that  anyone  who  has  felt  their  vigor  of  at- 
tack dislikes  to  classify  any  material  as  taboo. 
It  is,  moreover,  quite  obvious  that  a  theme  limi- 
tation for  a  five-year-old  would  not  apply  to  a 
fifteen-year-old.  Perhaps  most  of  the  limita- 
tions of  themes  for  the  young  would  apply  as 
well  for  adult  stories. 

'A  theme  is  especially  unfit  for  children  if  it 
calls  for  too  elaborate  staging.    For  that  reason 


180  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

a  story  like  tliat  of  the  boy  and  his  Boston  terrier 
in  China  might  easily  in  the  hands  of  an  author 
become  so  dense  with  atmosphere  that  the  dra- 
matic narrative  was  entirely  obscured.  What- 
ever interrupts  or  draws  attention  away  from 
dramatic  narrative,  whether  it  is  elaborate  stag- 
ing or  an  overwhelming  idea,  is  bad  for  the  child's 
story. 

The  trite  theme  may  be  a  dangerous  one  to  for- 
bid since  it  would  eliminate  so  large  a  propor- 
tion of  children's  stories.  Moreover  no  author 
recognizes  his  own  theme  as  trite,  and  a  complete 
list  of  such  would  be  a  difficult  proposition.  Such 
themes  as  rest  in  the  folloMdng  situations:  the 
child  who  dreams  a  fairy  story,  the  poor  boy  who 
becomes  head  of  the  firm  by  the  Horatio  Alger 
method,  the  girl  who  wins  over  a  crusty  employer 
by  cheery  ways  and  self-sacrificing  devotion  to 
work;  these  themes  seem  a  little  outworn.  Yet 
after  all,  the  skill  of  the  writer  in  his  power  to 
see  the  situation  in  a  new  way  and  to  express  it 
in  fresh  phrasing  has  so  great  an  influence  in 
determining  whether  the  final  effect  of  the  story 
is  trite  or  not  that  the  theme  itself  becomes  sec- 
ondary to  the  ability  to  handle  it. 

Themes  which  deal  with  the  occult  or  with  the 
horrible  may  be  safely  eliminated  from  the  list. 
If  they  could  be  excluded  from  the  oral  tales  as 
well,  much  of  the  fear  element  which  lurks  in  the 
background  of  children's  lives  would  disappear 
also.     Such  a  prohibition  is  not  applied  to  the 


THEME  181 

themes  wliicli  yield  mystery  stories.  A  mystery 
story  which  has  reality  is  interesting  and  stimu- 
lating both  to  children  and  to  adults. 

But  themes  which  are  based  on  unreality  form 
a  large  tabooed  group.  One  attribute  of  youth 
is  credulity  and  it  is  too  beautiful  and  too  useful 
an  asset  to  life's  apprentices  to  be  taken  advan- 
tage of.  Fiction  form  cannot  excuse  false  stand- 
ards or  impossible  situations.  Boys  would  not 
be  so  ready  to  jump  a  freight  car  for  the  west  or 
girls  to  fall  into  the  arms  of  the  tirst  applicant  if 
fiction  had  a  follow-up  system.  Their  dreams  are 
based  on  the  unreality  of  their  stories  and  they 
follow  their  dreams  with  the  single-heartedness 
of  youth.  A  theme  based  on  false  standards  or 
untruth  has  no  right  in  juvenile  fiction. 

If  a  theme  is  too  problematic,  it  becomes  unfit, 
because  both  sides  of  the  situation  must  be  pro- 
duced. The  story  loses  unity  of  effect  and  leaves 
the  reader  with  divided  attention.  A  writer,  for 
example,  cannot  in  a  short  story  handle  the  ques- 
tion of  the  comparative  advantages  of  the  coun- 
try or  the  city  for  a  child.  He  must  have  a  rep- 
resentative of  each,  and  if  he  treats  them  honestly 
he  will  have  to  give  advantages  to  each  in  their 
competition.  The  problematic  theme  or  the  prop- 
aganda theme  has  small  place  in  fiction  for  the 
young.  Questions  which  have  not  yet  been  settled 
by  the  world  may  well  be  eliminated  from  the 
stories. 

The  unfamiliar  theme  has  its  disadvantages. 


182 


JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 


If  it  is  unfamiliar  to  the  writer,  and  lie  tries  to 
write  a  story  on  the  influence  of  the  tropics  on 
character  when  he  has  always  lived  in  the  Bronx, 
he  is  likely  to  obtain  an  unconvincing  result.  If 
the  theme  is  too  unfamiliar  to  the  stage  of  child- 
hood for  which  it  is  intended,  the  reader  has  un- 
satisfactory results.  Unless  it  can  be  correlated 
with  his  present  experience  he  has  no  pass  key  to 
it.  Themes  are  limited  both  by  the  writer's  and 
by  the  reader's  knowledge,  experience,  and  be- 
liefs. 

The  writer  draws  upon  himself  as  the  source 
of  inspiration  for  his  themes.  Experience  may 
have  given  him  an  interesting  life,  reading  should 
have  provided  him  with  a  well-furnished  mind, 
thinking  ought  to  stimulate  him  into  the  produc- 
tion of  original  ideas.  Any  or  all  of  these  sources 
yield  themes  which  will  be  a  prolific  source  of 
plots.  If  he  has  an  awareness  of  the  potentiality 
of  grasp  of  his  audience,  he  can  fit  his  theme  to 
its  demands  and  needs. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  Angle  of  Nakratiokt 

After  the  writer  has  decided  upon  his  theme, 
his  characters,  and  his  plot,  he  has  to  settle  one 
more  question  before  he  can  begin  to  write.  This 
question  is  much  more  easily  decided  for  chil- 
dren's than  for  adults'  stories.  But  with  any  fic- 
tion a  writer  must  know  the  angle  which  he 
intends  to  take  in  his  narration  in  order  that  he 
may  stand  consistently  by  his  choice.  The  ama- 
teur author  plunges  in  and  tells  all  he  knows  about 
everything  and  everybody  in  the  story.  The  skil- 
ful author  realizes  possibility  in  the  technical 
point  of  angle  of  narration. 

Any  action  in  which  several  people  partake  will 
take  on  a  different  aspect  according  to  the  point 
of  view  of  the  person  who  relates  it,  or  through 
whom  it  is  related.  Suppose,  for  example,  that 
our  story  of  the  old  silver  mine  should  be  given 
as  it  appeared  to  "Sis."  We  sliould  have  to 
begin  with  "Sis"  on  the  island,  and  make  clear 
his  state  of  captivity.  We  should  have  to  present 
his  feeling  toward  the  situation,  his  state  of  mind 
toward  the  strange  boy  who  appears  on  the  beach ; 
and  we  should  have  to  tell  the  whole  story  as 

183 


184  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

"Sis"  saw  it,  felt  it,  was  affected  by  it.  Jerry- 
would  become  a  minor  character  in  this  story, 
the  spot  light  being  focussed  on  "Sis." 

Suppose,  instead,  that  we  consider  the  story 
from  the  uncle's  point  of  view,  his  satisfaction  at 
the  find  of  the  mine,  his  determination  to  use 
"Sis"  and  his  money  for  his  own  ends,  his  anger 
at  the  two  boys,  and  his  feeling  at  his  defeat. 
Again  we  have  another  story.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  narrative  is  transferred  to  the  old 
grandfather,  he  too  would  have  quite  a  different 
slant  on  the  whole  affair  and  through  him  we 
should  get  quite  a  different  story. 

The  fiirst  question  then  is,  whose  story  is  this? 
To  decide,  we  must  consider  on  which  character 
we  wish  the  child's  attention  especially  focussed. 
As  we  know,  he  will  identify  himself  with  one 
person  if  the  story  has  unity,  and  will  continue 
to  share  the  hopes,  fears,  and  activities  of  that 
person  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  If  we  give 
him  with  equal  emphasis  and  care  the  point  of 
view  of  another  character,  his  interest  becomes 
divided  in  his  effort  to  be  two  people  at  once.  The 
illusion  of  identification  with  the  chief  character 
is  destroyed,  and  sometimes  that  of  reality  itself. 

This  effect  of  confusion  and  lack  of  unity  of 
effect  frequently  arises  from  the  effort  of  the 
reader  to  tell  his  story  from  the  angle  of  omnis- 
cient author.  Such  a  writer  would  be  likely  to 
land  Jerry  on  the  island,  where  he  would  leave 
him  for  a  time  while  he  attended  to  "Sis."    He 


THE  ANGLE  OF  NARRATION         185 

would  then  give  us  the  story  of  "Sis"  up  to  the 
point  of  Jerry's  arrival.  When  it  came  time  for 
the  uncle  to  put  in  his  appearance,  he  would  be 
preceded  by  an  account  of  the  struggle  in  which 
he  was  involved.  Probably  also  the  grandfather 
would  not  be  neglected  on  Jerry's  return  to  the 
house.  We  have,  however,  decided  that  this  story 
belongs  to  Jerry.  He  is  the  character  with  whom 
we  wish  our  reader  to  become  intimate ;  his  strug- 
gle is  the  one  on  which  the  story  centers.  We  are 
going  to  tell  the  story  from  the  angle  of  narration 
which  in  juvenile  writing  is  likely  to  yield  direct 
and  clear  results;  that  is,  the  angle  of  the  main 
character. 

And  we  are  using  the  third  person  form.  Chil- 
dren usually  like  this  form  better  than  first  per- 
son. "I  don't  like  an  /  story,"  is  a  frequent  form 
of  criticism  from  them.  The  I  story,  it  is  true, 
has  certain  disadvantages.  It  is  likely  to  be 
rather  more  subjective  than  children  like,  and  it 
presents  the  difficulty  of  giving  full  valuation  to 
the  character  without  making  him  appear  con- 
ceited. In  What  Happened  to  Inger  Johanne,  the 
child  tells  her  own  story  with  much  humor  and 
reality  by  frequent  references  to  the  reactions  of 
other  people  to  her  and  her  pastimes.  The  story 
Real  Stuff,  by  Katherine  Haviland  Taylor,  is  told 
in  the  first  person  by  the  device  of  allowing  a 
chapter  at  a  time  to  one  person.  Thus  the  reader 
gets  the  character's  own  point  of  view  on  a  situ- 
ation, and  in  fhe  next  chapter  is  able  to  check 


186  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

that  up  with  the  narrative  as  told  in  the  first 
person  by  another  participant  in  the  incident. 
This  book  is  written  for  girls  who  are  mature 
enough  to  be  interested  in  a  more  subjective  form 
of  treatment  than  interests  the  younger  child. 

"V\Tiether  a  writer  shall  use  subjective  or  ob- 
jective method  is  determined  largely  by  his 
reader's  demands  upon  the  story.  A  child 
wishes  action  chiefly.  He  is  interested  in  thoughts 
and  feehngs  only  as  they  determine  the  kind  of 
action,  or  as  they  throw  light  on  motivating 
characteristics.  Later  the  young  person  comes 
to  a  realization  of  simple  psychology,  an  interest 
in  emotion  and  thoughts  as  they  rule  the  inner 
life  of  the  character.  Girls,  largely  perhaps 
through  patterns  put  over  on  them  in  life  and  lit- 
erature by  their  elders,  become  absorbed  in  emo- 
tional analysis  earlier  than  boys.  To  gratify  this 
new  interest  the  growing  girl  feeds  on  love  stories 
at  the  same  age  that  the  boy  is  absorbed  in  male 
adventures.  We  must,  therefore,  consider  the 
stage  of  development  of  our  readers  before  we 
decide  upon  how  far  we  may  become  subjective 
in  dealing  with  them. 

The  purely  objective  story  is  told  in  the  dra- 
matic method.  That  is,  the  reader  becomes  a 
spectator  and  sees  pass  before  him  the  action  of 
the  story  much  as  if  he  were  seated  in  the  theatre 
watching  the  stage.  He  listens  to  the  dialogue  of 
the  characters  just  as  he  hears  the  actors  talk.  He 
is  not  told  how  they  think  and  feel  any  more  than 


THE  ANGLE  OF  NARRATION        187 

he  is  told  in  the  theatre  where  the  old  fashioned 
asides  have  been  replaced  by  significant  speech 
and  interpretative  activity.  A  child's  story  is 
rarely  handled  in  the  purely  objective  fashion, 
of  for  instance,  Hardy's  Three  Strangers.  Even 
in  an  adventure  story  where  the  writer  focusses 
on  the  drama  instead  of  on  the  individual,  the 
child  needs  a  clue  now  and  then  as  to  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  actors.  In  Dr.  DoUttle  we  are  told 
nothing  about  the  thoughts  of  the  characters,  but 
such  a  statement  appears  as,  "Then  they  all  grew 
very  sad,"  or  "Gub-Gub  was  a  bit  scared,"  and 
*'The  Doctor  felt  very  pleased — "  This  touch 
of  author's  omniscience  is  justified  by  the  needs 
of  the  audience.  It  is  quite  different  from  the 
usual  method  of  the  beginner  of  which  we  have 
spoken,  by  which  he  reveals  everything  about 
everybody.  The  emphasis  still  remains  on  the 
dramatic  intensity  of  action  with  omniscience  of 
insight  only  as  it  is  necessary  for  interpretation. 
The  more  skillful  the  writer,  of  course,  the  less 
interpretation  of  his  drama  is  necessary. 

For  younger  children,  then,  we  need  compara- 
tively slight  analysis  of  motives,  feelings, 
thoughts.  The  subjective  method  has  little  in 
their  experience  to  meet  it.  In  the  pure  adven- 
ture narrative  where  interest  is  focussed  on  dra- 
matic action,  again  we  find  little  call  for  subjec- 
tive analysis.  But  when  we  tell  our  story  from 
the  angle  of  narration  of  one  person,  as  we  do 
with  Jerry  Flynn,  and  when  that  person's  appre- 


188  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

elation  of  his  own  situation  becomes  important 
enough  to  interest  us  in  his  hopes,  ambitions,  and 
fears,  as  well  as  in  the  actions  which  they  mo- 
tivate, then  we  need  to  treat  his  story  with  just 
enough  degree  of  subjectivity  to  make  the  emo- 
tions as  well  as  the  action  clear  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader  who  has  identified  himself  with  Jerry.  If 
we  write  the  story,  regarding  the  material  from 
Jerry's  point  of  view  toward  it,  giving  the  ma- 
terial as  Jerry  discovers  it  or  acts  in  it,  and  if 
we  tell  the  story  in  the  third  person  with  suffi- 
cient analysis  of  Jerry's  thought  and  feeling  to 
make  his  position  clear,  we  should  be  able  to  ac- 
complish this  end. 

The  writer  of  juvenile  stories  sometimes  uses 
the  angle  of  narration  of  a  character  outside  of 
the  story.  For  example,  stories  told  by  grandma 
about  children  she  knew  when  she  was  small,  or 
by  the  old  house  about  the  action  which  went  on 
within  its  walls,  or  by  any  outside  or  minor  char- 
acter, have  a  certain  value.  The  elements  of  the 
situation  are  concealed  until  the  time  comes  to 
reveal  them.  In  the  hands  of  the  story  teller,  the 
reader  realizes,  lies  the  key  to  the  whole  situa- 
tion; on  him  depends  its  unlocking.  The  nar- 
rative coming  straight  from  a  witness  or  minor 
character  takes  on  an  air  of  authenticity.  The 
story  toller  gives  his  word  that  the  story  is  true, 
thus  inducing  belief  in  the  child's  mind.  If  un- 
skillfully  handled,  however,  the  story  is  likely  to 
become  cluttered  up  with  the  personality  of  char- 


THE   ANGLE   OF  NARRATION         189 

acters  in  whom  tlie  reader  is  not  interested. 
Grandma  is  all  right  in  lier  place,  but  her  fund 
of  exx)erience,  not  her  character,  is  what  the  chil- 
dren wish  to  draw  upon.  Occasionally,  as  in  the 
Uncle  Remus  stories,  the  personality  of  the  nar- 
rator, his  speech,  his  mannerisms,  give  flavor  to 
the  stories  and  thus  justify  that  angle  of  narra- 
tion. 

When  the  writer  shifts  from  the  short  to  the 
long  story,  he  has  a  different  problem  about  the 
angle  of  narration  on  his  hands.  In  a  book  he 
has  plenty  of  time  and  space  to  devote  to  every- 
body. Though  the  story  must  centre  about  one 
person,  yet  it  may  bring  each  of  the  others  into 
relief  as  it  finds  necessary  to  serve  its  purpose. 
For  instance,  in  Little  Women,  though  Jo's  point 
of  view  is  the  most  frequently  emphasized,  still 
Meg  and  Amy  and  Beth  each  has  a  chapter  de- 
voted to  her  now  and  then  in  which  the  reader 
has  the  situation  from  the  special  girl's  point  of 
view.  Jo  could  not  have  given  us  adequately 
Meg's  emotions  toward  John,  her  new  home,  her 
babies;  she  could  have  told  us  only  how  they 
seemed  to  Jo,  the  onlooker.  If  the  book  had  been 
managed  so  that  all  of  its  material  came  to  the 
reader  through  the  one  character,  it  would  not 
have  been  Little  Women  at  all;  its  title  must  have 
been  Jo  March.  The  child  has  time  to  identify 
herself  with  each  book  character  in  turn  without 
confusion  until  she  settles  for  herself  which  one 
is  really  her  favorite.    To  this  one  she  remains 


190  JUVEXILr  STORY  WEITIN'G 

attajehed  whether  it  is  the  main  character  or  not. 
She  may  think  of  herself  as  Beth  if  she  is  a  cer- 
tain type  of  child,  qnite  a?  readily  a?  if  Betli  were 
the  heroine  of  the  V    :. 

The  problem  of  .1.  ;L  ::  s  ::y  is  concentra- 
ii(m:  economy  of  material  witliont  loss  of  efficacy. 
T"..:  -"-  .:  story,  :"■:::.  ::.r  -  :3  spotlight 
on  c:  s  it  there.    It  has  neither 

::  space  to  deal  with  the  other  characters 

except  m  their  relatic:  *  :  :.l  as  they  affect  the 
central  person.    Their  iLve>  pt  as  they  touch 

the  hero's,  are  not  ps.T*  -  -  -:  :y:  they  are  the 
basis  of  stories  of  their  cVvTi,  T:  siir.plest  way 
to  obtain  this  concentration  ci  ii.:.:?:  on  the 
hero  of  stories  for  older  children  is  to  give  the 
drcimistances  as  they  seem  from  his  point  of 
Tiew.  A  certain  psychological  sonndness  is  ac- 
qnired  by  maintaining  a  chosen  angle  thronghout 
the  story.  The  writer  places  the  interest  where 
he  wishes  it  and  keeps  it  there.  He  captures  the 
effect  of  reality  throngh  the  reader's  identifica- 
tion with  his  chief  character,  who,  nnder  this 
treatment  emerges  from  fiction  estate  into  hnman 
proportions.  He  acquires  a  unity  of  effect  both 
eniotif>i?al  and  dramatic,  through  his  concentra- 
ti  character,  actions,  and  emotions  of  one 

person.  He  is  likely  to  do  a  much  more  thorough 
a:  piece  of  work  as  far  as  its  effect 

on  iiif  s  mind  goes. 

Stories  :  :r  younger  children  will  need  more 
objective  treatment  and  a  freer  and  more  direct 


THE  XSGLE  OF  XARRATIOX         191 

interpretation  of  the  motives  behind  the  action. 
The  writer  tells  the  story  as  he  sees  it ;  the  reader 
faces  the  story  teller  and  listens.  The  story  may 
hold  the  reader  if  it  is  well  told,  mitil  the  listener 
forgets  the  narrator.  Such  method  approaches 
the  pure  narrative  art  of  the  oral  story.  If  em- 
ployed discreetly,  it  gives  the  younger  child  the 
narrative  without  much  analysis  which  is  un- 
suitable to  his  present  state.  Again  in  choice  of 
angle  of  narration  as  in  other  points  of  technique 
of  juvenile  writing,  the  winter's  method  depends 
upon  his  reader's  stage  of  development. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

Chapter  Arrangement  and  Development 

In  books  for  adults,  chapter  divisions  are  be- 
coming increasingly  unimportant.  The  modern 
novel  is  divided  into  sections  or  parts,  each  part 
subdivided  into  smaller  sections.  The  point  of 
division  depends  upon  the  convenience  of  the 
author,  who  may  separate  his  material  chrono- 
logically into  the  periods  through  which  his  char- 
acter passes,  childhood,  youth,  middle  age ;  or  into 
periods  of  emotional  development;  or  periods 
passed  in  different  settings ;  or  in  any  other  way 
he  pleases.  Sometimes  the  word  chapter  is  not 
mentioned.  AVhen  it  is  recognized,  it  is  usually 
indicated  only  by  a  numeral. 

The  demands  of  young  readers  upon  the  struc- 
ture of  the  juvenile  book  prohibit  any  such  free- 
dom with  chapter  arrangement.  A  child  cannot 
carry  successfully  in  his  mind  too  much  sus- 
pended material.  Far  issues  are  not  for  him. 
His  enjoyment  depends  on  many  problems  started 
and  finished  in  turn  rather  than  upon  the  intri- 
cacies of  a  single  complex  struggle.  The  relation 
of  the  chapter  to  the  whole  book  as  we  have  al- 
ready pointed  out  is  part  of  the  problem  of  the 

192 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  193 

relation  of  the  juvenile  short  story  to  the  juvenile 
book.  Like  a  mathematical  equation,  the  chap- 
ter :  the  book : :  sliort  story :  the  long  form. 

The  juvenile  book  then,  from  the  nature  of  the 
demands  upon  it,  resolves  itself  into  a  series  of 
stories  in  chapters  held  together  by  a  thread  of 
unity  in  the  form  of  some  large  problem  toward 
the  solution  of  which  all  the  lesser  plots  are 
working.  A  chapter,  or  a  small  group  of  chap- 
ters, takes  up  a  difficulty  of  the  hero,  works  at 
it,  solves  it  sufficiently  to  satisfy  the  reader  and 
to  leave  the  hero  a  perceptible  degree  nearer  the 
solution  of  the  main  problem  of  the  book.  For 
instance,  in  High  Benton  the  unifying  bond  of  the 
book  is  the  theme,  the  developing  power  of  work. 
The  book  gives  the  small  town  setting,  the  effect 
of  bad  companions  on  High,  and  the  working  out 
of  his  individuality.  In  the  process  many  sepa- 
rate adventures,  each  with  a  climax  and  solution, 
make  up  the  separate  chapters  or  groups  of  chap- 
ters. All  have  the  same  general  aim  in  view, 
but  each  has  its  own  special  job.  These  chapter- 
plots  which  are  united  by  the  one  main  theme, 
we  have  called  contributory  plots. 

The  unifying  bond  may  be  based  on  a  situation, 
as  in  Forest  Castaways,  where  the  main  plot  is 
the  problem  of  getting  the  boys  out  of  the  woods, 
and  the  contributory  plots  are  the  separate  ad- 
ventures which  they  go  through  in  that  struggle. 
Or  the  main  issue  may  deal  with  character  devel- 
opment.   In  Understood  Betsy,  the  child  changes 


194  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

from  a  repressed,  fear-stricken,  helpless  creature 
into  a  happy,  healthy,  useful  girl.  The  series  of 
chapters  correspond  with  the  series  of  struggles 
against  her  handicaps  through  which  Betsy  goes 
in  her  process  of  development. 

If  instead  of  dealing  with  one  character  as  in 
Understood  Betsy,  the  writer  chooses  a  group  for 
his  material,  he  is  faced  by  a  new  problem.  Is 
it  possible  to  have  a  group  hero?  Can  the  uni- 
fying bond  of  a  book  be  concerned  equally  with 
more  than  one  person?  Little  Women  deals  with 
a  group,  each  member  of  which  has  certain  chap- 
ters given  definitely  to  her.  lYet  on  whom  is  the 
attention  of  the  reader  most  fixed  and  with  whose 
problems  most  concerned?  Each  member  of  the 
family  gets  her  turn  and  contributes  her  strug- 
gle to  the  problem  of  the  book  but  the  high  light 
is  on  Jo.  The  solution  of  Jo's  difficulties  is  the 
strong  wire  core  within  the  twisted  cable  of  the 
bond. 

In  Five  Little  Peppers  and  How  They  Grew, 
each  little  Pepper  is  essential  to  the  working  out 
of  the  book,  but  Polly  has  the  leading  part,  is  the 
main  character  on  the  stage.  Polly's  problems, 
like  Jo 's,  maintain  the  strength  of  the  bond.  The 
story,  like  the  stage,  is  most  successful  when  the 
audience  is  able  to  focus  on  one  character.  Crowd 
the  scene  with  people,  or  allow  a  minor  character 
to  be  excrutiatingly  funny  in  one  corner  of  the 
stage,  and  the  attention  of  the  audience  becomes 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  195 

scattered.  The  main  actor  with  the  plot  of  the 
play  in  his  hands  loses  his  grip  on  his  hearers. 
The  play  flattens  out.    Unity  is  lost. 

The  child  reader  identifies  himself  with  one 
person  in  his  story,  not  with  an  entire  group. 
The  book,  then,  which  makes  that  identification 
easy  by  focussing  on  a  character  is  more  likely 
to  be  successful  than  the  book  which  scatters  its 
interests  among  a  number  of  people.  An  excep- 
tion to  this  rule  may  be  made  for  twins.  Twins 
may  go  through  diverse  adventures  w^ith  impunity 
and  still  receive  the  single-minded  attention 
Usually  devoted  to  the  unattached  hero.  The  pair 
apparently  represent  one  complete  whole  to  the 
child,  and  offer  no  obstacle  as  an  object  of  trans- 
fer. 

If,  then,  we  consider  the  juvenile  book  as  a 
series  of  contributory  plots  held  together  by  the 
unifying  bond  of  the  problem  of  a  situation  or 
of  a  character,  we  might  visualize  its  chapter 
structure  as  follows: 


M=§^ 


-^  Unifying    bond  of  main 
problem. 

-^  Chapters  strung  together 
on  it. 


Or,  as  in  a  mystery  story,  each  chapter  affords  a  separate  clue,  all  of  them 
together  completing  the  story  and  solving  the  mystery. 

Chapter  I clue  \ 

Chapter  II clue  >  T  All  together  solve  mystery. 

Chapter  III clue  J 

etc. 


196 


JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 


A-A-A — Chapters  with  separate  contributory  plots  aimed  toward  main  issue. 
C — Central  aim,  or  plot,  or  main  issue. 


Chapter  I. 


Chapter  II. 


>-    Chapter  III. 


The  whole  book  built  on  chapters,  each  new  one  including  the  old,  and  adding 
Bomcthiiig  to  it. 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  197 

The  actual  chapter  arrangement  is  likely  to  be 
planned  according  to  the  temperament  of  the 
author.  At  least  three  ways  are  open  to  choice. 
The  chapters  may  all  be  planned  before  the  book 
is  started.  The  writer  may  know  just  what  his 
principal  characters  are  going  to  experience  be- 
forehand, and  he  may  tabulate  his  calculations  in 
chapter  heads  before  he  begins  the  book.  Such  a 
method  would  be  valuable  for  books  based  on 
pre-ascertained  scientific  data.  It  would  tend  to 
keep  the  writer  to  the  point  and  to  exclude  ex- 
traneous material.  It  would  also  serve  to  analyze 
the  mystery  story  into  its  necessary  component 
parts  and  bring  it  to  a  logical  close.  It  has,  how- 
ever, certain  disadvantages  for  much  of  fiction. 
By  this  method  material  cannot  grow  under  the 
hand  of  the  author  little  by  little  into  a  living 
product.  It  is  cut  out  like  a  paper  doll,  with  each 
new  chapter  a  new  tissue  paper  dress.  And  the 
end  product  is  likely  to  be  crackly  and  stiff. 

In  the  second  method  of  chapter  arrangement, 
the  writer  makes  up  chapters  as  he  goes  along. 
He  may  plan  one  chapter  at  a  time,  bearing  in 
mind  the  main  issue  of  the  book,  complete  that 
chapter,  then  plan  and  write  the  next.  Among 
the  advantages  of  this  method  is  the  fact  that  the 
chapters  will  probably  be  of  the  right  length ;  they 
will  bear  the  right  relation  to  each  other,  and  to 
the  orderly  whole;  they  will  escape  irregular 
lengths,  one  short  and  one  long;  and  they  w^ll 
avoid  inclusion  of  unimportant  issues.    The  only 


198         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

serious  disadvantage  is  that  the  writer,  once  well 
started,  will  have  to  hold  up  the  creative  fire 
while  he  ascertains  whether  he  has  burned  just 
enough  wood  to  make  the  wood  pile  come  out 
even. 

The  third  method  of  the  author  is  to  divide  his 
story  up  into  chapters  after  he  has  it  finished. 
This  is  probably  the  most  slovenly  method,  but 
this,  the  author  is  obliged  to  confess,  is  her  own 
method.  It  has  plenty  of  obvious  disadvantages 
but  it  has  one  real  advantage.  The  writer  can 
keep  his  fire  going  as  hot  as  he  pleases  without 
being  held  up  and  cooled  otf  while  he  considers 
whether  the  fuel  will  last.  With  the  main  issue 
in  mind  and  the  different  contributory  plots  which 
he  wishes  to  use  in  developing  his  theme,  he 
works  steadily  on  toward  his  goal.  At  the  end 
he  will  find,  of  course,  that  his  adventures  will 
not  always  cut  up  into  pieces  of  regular  length. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  more  than  one  chapter 
may  be  used  in  the  development  of  a  complete 
adventure  or  contributory  plot.  Such  an  elas- 
ticity permits  enough  freedom  of  division  to 
make  the  chapter  arrangement  fairly  simple  at 
the  end.  The  adjustment  of  chapter  lengths  by 
this  method  is  not  so  difficult  as  it  might  seem, 
because  of  the  construction  of  the  juvenile  book 
from  a  series  of  contributory  plots.  A  chapter  is 
about  the  length  of  a  short  story  and  the  material 
of  one  incident  or  contributory  plot  works  out 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  199 

naturally  into  the  length  of  a  short  story  which 
serves  as  a  chapter. 

Whatever  method  the  writer  chooses  as  most 
congenial  to  his  temperament  and  material,  one 
thing  he  must  know  beforehand  and  keep  in  mind 
all  the  time  he  is  writing,  the  main  issue  of  the 
story.  One  of  the  first  rules  given  in  drawing  is : 
To  draw  a  straight  line,  keep  the  eye  on  the  des- 
tination, not  on  the  pencil.  Among  the  many 
things  to  which  this  rule  is  applicable  is  the  writ- 
ing of  a  story. 

The  question  usually  arises:  Shall  chapters  be 
named  or  will  it  suffice  to  give  them  numbers 
only?  To  test  the  feeling  of  young  readers 
toward  chapter  headings,  try  reading  aloud  books 
which  use  each  method.  With  the  pause  which 
follows  the  announcement  of  the  name  of  a  new 
chapter  comes  an  anticipatory  look,  a  gleam  of 
conjecture,  a  swift  gesture  of  the  mind  to  meet 
the  new  situation.  Favorite  chapters  are  called 
for  and  are  reread  according  to  their  proper 
names.  The  number  sj^stem  is  much  simpler  for 
the  writer  but  it  has  no  argument  in  its  favor 
for  the  young  reader. 

A  name  is  a  difficult  enough  problem  in  any 
case.  The  names  of  the  characters  must  express 
them  as  we  have  already  noted.  The  name  of  the 
book  itself  opens  one  of  the  best  avenues  of  pub- 
licity for  it.  Notice  the  advertisements  of  juve- 
nile books,  how  important  a  place  the  book  names 
receive.    Analyze  the  best  ones :  short,  significant. 


200  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

catchy,  original,  not  too  revealing,  but  piquing  the 
curiosity.  Not  an  easy  thing  to  capture!  Since 
each  chapter  name  demands  much  the  same  care 
and  sldll,  it  is  no  wonder  that  authors  prefer 
immbers.  But  the  enhancement  of  interest  for 
the  reader  is  sufficient  to  make  the  extra  work 
necessary.  A  successful  book  does  not  neglect  its 
chapter  heads  any  more  than  its  Christian  name. 

The  Initial  Plunge 

The  old  saying  that  all  beginnings  are  hard  is 
as  applicable  to  getting  a  story  started  as  to 
other  efforts.  Heywood  Broun  notes  a  certain 
likeness  between  sword  swallowing  and  book  read- 
ing which  has  significance  for  the  discerning 
writer. 

But  what  we  really  had  chiefly  in  mind  upon  reading 
Mr.  Houdini's  interesting  and  instructive  book  was  the 
close  kinship  between  swallowing  swords  and  reading 
novels,  for  we  find  that  ever  so  many  books  have  a 
habit  of  sticking  at  the  pharynx  or  thereabouts.  Getting 
started  is  the  great  difficulty.  Some  authors  try  to 
obviate  the  difficulty  by  beginning  with  a  pistol  shot 
or  a  scene  in  which  a  beautiful  young  girl  suddenly 
enters  a  young  man's  two-room  ax)artmcnt  in  an  ex- 
clusive building  at  dead  of  night  and  exclaims,  **You 
must  save  me.    They're  following  me!" 

There  was  a  time  when  these  fooled  us,  but  by  now 
we  have  learned  to  anticipate  that  nobody  of  any  par- 
ticular interest  will  be  hit  by  the  pistol  sliot  and  that 
the  licautiful  young  woman  will  turn  out  to  be  only 
the  crown  princess  of  Robogivinia  in  disguise.  As  for 
the  books  which  begin  with  a  long  description  of  the 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  201 

countryside  and  expand  for  a  chapter  or  so  the  menac- 
ing quality  of  the  ancient  oaks  which  cluster  about  the 
manor  house,  we  must  admit  we  never  have  been  able 
to  do  much  with  them.  In  fact  for  almost  a  month  now 
book  after  book  has  gone  as  far  as  the  pharynx  and  no 
further. 

The  point  is  then  to  begin  the  story  in  such 
wise  that  it  will  get  past  the  pharynx.  The  ju- 
venile reader  is  even  more  insistent  than  the  adult 
upon  this  qualification.  He  has  neither  the  far 
sight  nor  the  patience  to  wade  through  an  unin- 
teresting beginning  for  the  sake  of  future  reward. 
The  opening  paragraphs  of  the  opening  chapter 
are  important  outposts  for  the  writer  to  capture. 

The  book  which  begins  with  a  block  of  descrip- 
tion or  exposition  is  likely  to  have  an  unenthusi- 
astic  reception.  Its  unbroken  solidity  may  serve 
as  a  high  board  fence  to  children.  Something 
may  be  on  the  other  side  but  only  the  agile-minded 
will  bother  to  find  out  by  climbing  over.  Yet 
authors  sometimes  compass  this  form  of  begin- 
ning with  marked  success.  The  first  chapter  of 
Heidi  begins  with  the  footpath  going  up  straight 
and  steep  to  the  Alps;  and  climbing  the  narrow 
path,  the  flushed  child  who  wears  her  entire  ward- 
robe. But  the  description  is  active;  even  the 
footpath  climbs.  The  reader  is  on  his  way  to 
some  destination.  Later  in  the  chapter  the  ex- 
position explaining  the  Aim-Uncle  is  given  in  the 
form  of  dialogue  which  offers  the  advantage  of 
broken  short  paragraphs.    The  story  of  Dr.  Do- 


202  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

little  opens  with  a  description  of  the  doctor  an9 
of  his  home.  But  who  objects  to  reading  of  a 
doctor  who  kept  white  mice  in  his  piano  and  who 
lost  his  practice  because  an  old  lady  patient  sat 
on  his  hedgehog?  If  the  description  is  active,  if 
it  has  actual  bearing  on  the  drama  of  the  story, 
it  is  as  interesting  to  the  child  as  his  first  view 
of  the  stage  when  the  curtain  goes  up,  or  the 
arrangement  of  his  own  camp  in  the  woods.  He 
knows  something  is  going  to  happen  in  these 
places  and  he  is  prepared  to  make  use  of  their 
possibilities. 

The  story  which  opens  with  a  solid  block  of 
exposition  has  even  less  chance  of  success  than 
the  descriptive  opening.  Yet  like  description  it 
may  be  handled  skilfully  enough  to  keep  the 
child's  interest.  Such  a  chapter  as  the  one  which 
opens  Tom  Brown's  School  Days  would  theoret- 
ically turn  aside  any  reader  young  or  old. 
Hughes  gives  the  history  of  the  Brown  family, 
solidly,  solemnly.  The  exposition  is  unenlight- 
ened by  dialogue,  unfermented  by  action.  But 
the  first  chapter  never  seems  to  have  daunted 
readers.    One  wonders  if  the  boys  ever  skip  it. 

The  story  may  open  with  rapid  fire  action. 
Such  a  beginning  attracts  the  reader's  immediate 
attention;  but  makes  him  oblivious  to  the  lesser 
sounds.  And  no  writer  can  keep  big  guns  going 
all  the  time.  Or  if  he  could,  only  the  deaf-minded 
would  care  to  read  him.  Since  the  tumult  must 
ordinarily  subside   soon,  the  effect  of  an  anti- 


CH/VPTER  ARRANGEMENT  203 

climax  creeps  in.    As  a  result  the  reader  discards 
the  book. 

Another  method  of  starting  the  story  is  by 
homely,  comfortable  detail.  Sometimes  it  is  in 
the  form  of  dialogue,  sometimes  of  what  the  thea- 
tre calls  stage  business,  a  revealing  land  of  per- 
sonal activity.  The  psychology  of  the  effect  of 
such  a  beginning  is  to  make  the  reader  feel  at 
home  at  once.  The  material  correlates  with  his 
previous  experience.  He  has  heard  people  talk 
that  way  before,  he  has  seen  people  busy  about 
just  such  things.  He  recognizes  the  casual  ele- 
ment without  analyzing  it  far  enough  to  be  aware 
that  it  is  also  significant.  For  an  opening  of 
this  sort  has  more  of  a  function  than  making  the 
reader  feel  at  home.  It  must  suggest  to  him  the 
revealing  characteristics  of  the  situation.  The 
hero  does  not  burst  into  any  sort  of  conversation, 
or  concern  himself  with  scattered  activities  just 
to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  is  there  ready 
to  start  things  off.  A  dramatist  chooses  carefully 
the  speech  and  action  of  his  character  when  the 
curtain  goes  up;  he  recognizes  the  importance  of 
first  impressions  in  the  habits  of  thinking  of  his 
audience.  No  false  character  clues  are  given; 
none  is  wasted.  Yet  the  effect  is  of  unconscious 
natural  self-expression  and  the  audience  begins 
at  once  to  feel  acquainted  with  the  characters  and 
the  situation.  A  beginning  of  this  sort  demands 
infinite  pains  in  order  to  secure  the  coupled  effect 
of   ease   and   significance.     An   author   has    the 


204  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

double  role  of  dramatist  and  actor  on  his  hands 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  sometimes  appears 
self-conscious  in  his  two-fold  effort. 

The  old  favorite,  Little  Women,  opens  with  dia- 
logue, which,  while  apparently  a  discussion  that 
might  be  duplicated  in  any  family,  reveals  in  each 
speech  something  of  the  speaker. 

** Christmas  won't  be  Christmas  without  any  presents," 
grumbled  Jo,  lying  on  the  rug. 

"It's  so  dreadful  to  be  poor!"  sighed  Meg,  looking 
down  at  her  old  dress. 

*'I  don't  think  it's  fair  for  some  girls  to  have  plenty 
of  pretty  things,  and  other  girls  nothing  at  all,"  added 
little  Amy,  with  an  injured  sniff. 

""We've  got  father  and  mother  and  each  other,"  said 
Beth  contentedly,  from  her  corner. 

The  four  young  faces  on  which  the  firelight  shone 
brightened  at  the  cheerful  words,  but  darkened  again 
as  Jo  said  sadly — "We  haven't  got  father  and  shall 
not  have  him  again  for  a  long  time."  She  didn't  say, 
"perhaps  never,"  but  each  silently  added  it,  thinking 
of  father  far  away,  where  the  fighting  was.^ 

In  each  of  these  first  four  sentences  of  the 
book  a  character  clue  is  given  and  a  glimpse  of 
the  general  circumstances  of  the  family.  In  the 
next  paragraph  the  reader  learns  through  the 
natural  sequence  of  conversation  that  the  father 
is  at  war.  There,  then,  with  a  kind  of  effortless 
ease,  Louise  Alcott  has  performed  her  introduc- 
tions and  explained  her  situation.     One  realizes 

*  Little  Women,  by  Louisa  M.  Alcott,  copyright  by  Little,  Brown 
i  Co. 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  205 

that  she  never  could  have  begun  her  book  with 
such  revealing  phrases  if,  from  the  very  first,  the 
characters  had  not  been  clear  in  her  own  mind. 
Jo  would  lounge  on  the  rug  and  grumble.  Who 
should  know  better  since  she  herself  was  Jo ! 

In  Five  Little  Peppers,  another  old  favorite, 
the  curtain  rises  on  the  old  kitchen  at  twilight 
where  all  the  little  Peppers  except  Ben  are  as- 
sembled. Polly  helps  her  mother  pull  bastings, 
Joe  and  David  nail  up  a  box  while  Phronsie 
watches  them  and  asks  questions.  Ben  comes  in 
from  work  and  they  all  have  supper.  Simple 
enough  action,  but  character-revealing.  The  pov- 
erty of  the  family,  their  loyalty  to  each  other 
and  the  good  times  they  have  together  become 
evident  to  the  reader  at  once.  His  ideas  are  in 
order  to  grasp  the  development  of  the  book. 

Lewis  Carroll  wastes  no  time  in  plunging  Alice 
into  Wonderland.    The  book  opens : 

Alice  was  beginning  to  get  very  tired  of  sitting  by 
her  sister  on  the  hank  and  of  having  nothing  to  do; 
once  or  twice  she  had  peeped  into  the  book  her  sister 
was  reading,  but  it  had  no  pictures  or  conversation  in 
it,  and  "what  is  the  use  of  a  book,"  thought  Alice, 
"without  pictures  or  conversation?" 

So  she  was  considering  in  her  own  mind  (as  well  as 
she  could  for  the  hot  day  made  her  feel  very  sleepy 
and  stupid)  whether  the  pleasure  of  making  a  daisy 
chain  would  be  worth  the  trouble  of  getting  up  and 
picking  the  daisies,  when  suddenly  a  White  Rabbit  with 
pink  eyes  ran  close  by  her. 


206  JITV^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  rabbit's  remark  of  **0h  dear,  oh  dear,  I 
shall  be  late!"  and  his  action  of  taking  a  watch 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  looking  at  it 
arouse  the  interest  of  Alice  as  well  as  of  the 
reader,  and  so  the  story  is  off.  Carroll  has  sug- 
gested a  real  situation  by  his  setting  and  his 
shrewd  comment  on  children's  books.  For  the 
literal  minded  reader  he  has  offered  the  privilege 
of  beUeving  that  Alice  merely  fell  asleep  (for  the 
hot  day  made  her  feel  very  sleepy  and  stupid) 
and  for  the  romantic  reader  a  realistic  enough 
lead  to  justify  belief  in  what  follows. 

Rebecca  of  Sunnyhrooh  Farm  has  had  a  wide 
and  continued  enough  popularity  to  warrant  at- 
tention to  the  method  by  which  the  reader  is 
drawn  into  the  book.  The  story  begins  with  the 
trip  of  the  old  stage  coach  driven  by  Mr.  Jeremiah 
Cobb  on  a  hot  day  in  May.  The  single  passenger, 
a  little  girl,  is  introduced  at  once  and  her  appear- 
ance given  in  detail.  Mrs.  Wiggin  has  used  de- 
scription largely  in  her  opening  paragraphs. 
She  has  conveyed  to  the  reader  that  her  setting 
is  in  the  country,  that  the  juvenile  character  is  a 
little  country  girl,  that  she  is  going  somewhere, 
that  she  is  going  alone,  and  that  she  is  unused 
to  travel.  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cobb  is  ob\dously  a  part 
of  the  background  for  Rebecca  who,  though  not 
named  yet,  is  already  characterized  in  part.  The 
orientation  of  the  reader  has  begun. 

Note  the  way  in  which  Kipling  captures  the 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  207 

attention  of  his  reader  when  he  begins  Stalky  & 
Co. 

In  summer  all  right-minded  boys  built  huts  in  the 
furzehill  behind  the  college — little  lairs  whittled  out  of 
the  heart  of  the  prickly  bushes,  full  of  stumps,  odd 
root-ends,  and  spikes,  but,  since  they  were  strictly  for- 
bidden, palaces  of  delight.  And  for  the  fifth  summer 
in  succession.  Stalky,  McTurk,  and  Beetle  (this  was  be- 
fore they  reached  the  dignity  of  a  study)  had  built  like 
beavers  a  place  of  retreat  and  meditation  where  they 
smoked. 

Kipling  goes  on  to  the  incident  where  McTurk 
attacks  Colonel  Dabney  because  his  keeper  was 
out  after  a  fox.  To  the  Colonel's  question,  ''Do 
you  know  who  I  am?''  "No,  sorr,  nor  do  I  care 
if  ye  belonged  to  the  Castle  itself.  Answer  me 
now,  as  one  gentleman  to  another.  Do  ye  shoot 
foxes  or  do  ye  not?" 

Kipling's  psychology  is  sound  here.  He  has 
raised  the  curtain  on  a  scene  which  all  boys  find 
ensnaring.  It  either  correlates  with  their  past 
experience  or  furnishes  a  desire  for  such  experi- 
ence. Then  he  satisfies  their  will  to  power  by 
making  a  boy  the  master  of  a  situation  which  has 
every  prophecy  of  being  his  AYaterloo.  The 
reader  is  ready  to  go  on  with  the  book. 

Tom  Sawyer  secures  his  reader  through  much 
more  obvious  tactics.  He  too  has  been  in  mischief 
and  is  escaping  the  results  from  adult  hands. 

"Tom!" 
No  answer. 


208  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

"Tom!" 

No  answer. 

' '  What 's  gone  with  that  boy,  I  wonder  ?    You  TOM ! ' ' 

No  answer. 

The  old  lady  pulled  her  spectacles  down  and  looked 
over  them  about  the  room;  then  she  put  them  up  and 
looked  out  under  them.  She  seldom  or  never  looked 
through  them  for  so  small  a  thing  as  the  boy;  they 
were  her  state  pair,  the  pride  of  her  heart  and  were 
built  for  style,  not  service — she  could  have  seen  through 
a  pair  of  stove-lids  just  as  well.  She  looked  perplexed 
for  a  moment  and  then  said  not  fiercely  but  still  loud 
enough  for  the  furniture  to  hear: 

''Well,  I  lay  if  I  get  hold  of  you,  I'll—" 

There  follows  the  incident  of  the  switching 
Tom  escapes,  of  punishment  for  swimming  he 
eludes,  of  the  fight  previously  quoted.  At  the  end 
of  the  chapter,  the  reader  is  acquainted  with  Tom. 

What  Happened  to  Inger  Johanne  begins  with 
a  characterization  of  the  heroine  by  herself.  In 
order  that  the  reader  may  really  get  Inger  the 
author  uses  the  device  of  allowing  Inger  to  de- 
scribe herself  as  she  appears  to  herself  and  then 
as  she  seems  to  other  people.  The  reader  then 
is  in  the  position  of  looking  Inger  over  judicially 
while  he  listens  to  her  talk. 

Chapter  I.    Ourselves. 

There  are  four  brothers  and  sisters  of  us  at  home, 
and  as  I  am  the  eldest,  it  is  natural  that  I  should  de- 
scribe myself  first.  I  am  very  tall  and  slim  (Mother 
calls  it  "long  and  lanky"),  and  sad  to  say,  I  have  very 
large  hands  and  very  large  feet.    * '  My,  what  big  feet ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  ARRANGEMENT  209 

our  horrid  old  shoemaker  always  says  when  he  measures 
me  for  a  pair  of  shoes.  I  feel  like  jjunching  his  tousled 
head  for  him  as  he  kneels  there  taking  my  measure; 
for  he  has  said  that  so  often  now  that  I  am  sick  and 
tired  of  it. 

My  hair  is  in  two  long  brown  braids  down  my  back. 
That  is  well  enough,  but  my  nose  is  too  broad,  I  think. 
So  sometimes,  when  I  sit  and  study,  I  put  a  doll's 
clothespin  on  it  to  make  it  smaller;  but  when  I  take  the 
clothespin  otf,  my  nose  springs  out  again;  so  there  is  no 
help  for  it  probably. 

Inger  explains  why  the  boys  call  her  self-im- 
portant because  she  does  not  like  to  have  them 
pull  her  braids,  call  her  Ginger  and  give  cat  calls 
and  whistle  when  they  want  her  to  come  out. 
The  author  thus  succeeds,  through  Inger  Jo- 
hanne's  own  estimation  of  herself  compared  with 
that  of  her  friends,  in  giving  a  characterization 
of  the  child. 

The  beginning  of  a  book,  then,  presents  rather 
a  different  problem  than  the  beginning  of  a  short 
story.  In  the  short  story  the  space  is  so  much 
more  limited  that  concentration  is  imperative. 
The  writer  has  fewer  words  at  his  command  to 
use  in  introductions;  he  must  interest  his  reader 
with  action  almost  at  once;  he  must  give  him 
something  vital  to  the  plot.  The  writer  of  the 
book  begins  with  a  sense  of  more  leisure.  Let  him 
beware,  nevertheless,  of  the  dangers  in  leisure 
and  space.  While  in  scientific  terms  his  prol)lem 
is  not  so  much  to  make  a  cross  section  of  the  sit- 
uation as  to  present  it  in  a  series  of  sections,  he 


210         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

still  must  make  each  section  interesting  and  sig- 
nificant. And  the  first  one  must  give  a  key  to  the 
theme  which  he  is  trying  to  demonstrate.  Let 
him  bear  in  mind,  as  he  looks  over  his  material 
with  a  view  to  getting  its  best  value,  that  he  must 
make  his  characters  visible  to  the  readers  at  once, 
and  that  he  must  set  them  in  action ;  action  which 
shall  be  characteristic  of  the  actors  and  which 
shall  start  the  story  off  in  the  direction  toward 
which  its  author  means  it  to  move.  The  entrance 
of  new  characters  may  be  postponed  longer  in  the 
book  than  in  the  short  story;  the  completeness  of 
the  characterization  may  be  delayed  further;  the 
action  and  complication  of  the  plot  distributed 
over  more  space ;  but  the  first  paragraphs  of  the 
first  chapter  must  capture  the  young  reader  just 
as  promptly  as  those  of  the  short  story.  In  spite 
of  his  capture,  however,  the  reader  is  no  prisoner 
except  through  his  pleasure.  Let  the  bonds  of 
interest  loosen  and  he  walks  away.  The  writer 
will  not  get  him  again;  once  caught,  twice  wary. 
The  next  question,  therefore,  which  we  have  to 
consider  in  writing  a  book  is  how  to  sustain  the 
interest. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
The  Problem  of  Sustaining  Interest 

In  the  short  story  the  time  and  space  are  so 
limited  that  the  writer  finds  economy  of  scene 
necessary.  Many  short  stories  take  place  within 
the  background  of  one  scene  only.  If  the  writer 
changes  his  characters  from  place  to  place  he  finds 
that  if  these  places  are  too  widely  different  in 
atmosphere,  conditions  of  living,  etc.,  he  will  have 
to  spend  too  much  time  adjusting  his  reader  to 
the  change.  The  action  will  probably  be  delayed 
while  the  reader  catches  up  with  the  scenes. 

In  the  book,  however,  change  of  scene  will  often 
serve  to  sustain  interest  in  the  larger  and  more 
complicated  plot.  The  change  may  be  a  com- 
pletely radical  one,  as  in  Katherine  Adams' 
Meliitahle,  where  she  transfers  her  little  country 
girl  of  New  England  to  a  boarding  school  outside 
of  Paris.  Or  it  may  be  less  radical  geographically 
but  equally  upsetting  from  its  new  and  trying 
demands  on  the  characters.  Such  a  change  of 
scene  with  its  new  set  of  reactions  for  the  heroine 
brings  about  a  deepened  interest  in  Dorothy  Can- 
field's  Understood  Betsey.  In  any  case,  change 
of  scene  is  bound  to  make  new  demands  upon  the 

211 


212  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

characters  as  they  adjust  themselves  to  their  new 
enviroiunent.  New  demands  bring  out  fresh  char- 
acterization because  the  characters  are  bound  to 
adjust  themselves  in  their  own  peculiar  ways. 
Thus  they  become  better  known  to  the  reader  who 
in  turn  should  be  more  interested  in  them. 

A  change  of  scene  in  fiction  gives  the  added  in- 
terest that  a  new  place  brings  to  the  child  in  real 
life.  If  it  is  successfully  handled  it  is  to  him  like 
a  well-planned  trip.  He  thoroughly  enjoys  the 
change.  But,  as  in  life,  the  trip  must  be  well 
planned.  The  writer  must  see  far  enough  ahead 
that  the  change  is  coming  to  prepare  well  for  it. 
If  it  is  not  soundly  motivated  by  the  story,  it  will 
serve  only  to  destroy  the  illusion  of  reality.  One 
cannot  move  characters  about  from  pole  to  pole 
just  because  they  have  no  fares  to  pay.  The 
hero's  ticket  must  be  stamped  with  reason  or  the 
reader  will  not  accept  it. 

Change  in  condition  may  work  to  sustain  the 
interest  of  the  child  in  the  book  characters :  From 
riches  to  poverty,  or  from  poverty  to  riches,  from 
a  dull  situation  through  the  entrance  of  an  excit- 
ing element  to  a  more  stimulating  one.  In  Five 
Little  Peppers  and  How  They  Grew,  good  fortune 
comes  to  the  little  Brown  House,  and  has  its 
effect  on  the  various  members  of  the  family.  Like 
most  changes  in  condition,  it  finally  leads  to 
change  of  scene,  as  when  Polly  goes  to  the  Kings. 
Again  a  new  set  of  reactions  brings  out  a  new 
set  of  characteristics.     In  addition,  the  reader 


PROBLEM  OF  SUSTAINING  INTEREST    213 

likes  to  observe  the  contrasts  in  ways  of  living. 
As  in  the  old  Cinderella  theme,  wishes  become 
fulfilled,  day-dreams  realized.  Here  as  before 
the  way  must  be  paved  for  the  change  or  it  will 
not  seem  plausible  enough  to  the  reader  to  allow 
him  to  identify  himself  with  such  proceedings. 
Mere  coincidence  or  accident,  such  as  the  inlierit- 
ance  of  a  fortune  from  an  unknown  and  hitherto 
Tinmentioned  relative  may  seem  a  happy  fate  in 
life,  but  in  fiction  it  strains  the  reader's  credulity. 
Frequently  interest  is  sustained  by  radical 
change  in  scene  and  condition  both.  Heidi  goes 
from  the  simplicity  of  her  mountain  home  with 
her  grandfather  to  a  complex  city  life  surrounded 
by  many  people.  Then  she  returns  to  the  first 
condition,  bringing  back  to  it  the  important  ele- 
ments of  the  second,  thus  making  a  unit  of  the 
story.  Merrylips,  by  Beulah  Dix,  goes  through 
the  change  of  scenes  from  home  to  army  life, 
from  the  state  of  a  little  girl  to  that  of  a  little 
boy.  In  a  recent  serial,  the  heroine,  who  belongs 
to  a  rich  and  noble  family  in  France,  is  left  alone 
and  impoverished  by  the  war.  The  scene  changes 
from  France  to  America  where  her  struggle  con- 
tinues until  a  happy  ending  which  gives  her  back 
her  original  possessions.  Such  a  shifting  of 
scenes  and  conditions  both  offers  endless  latitude 
for  adventure.  The  action  of  the  story  is  pro- 
pelled by  two  horse  power  instead  of  one.  The 
writer  must  be  sure  that  his  pull  is  all  in  the 
same  direction  for  one  drive  working  against  the 


214  JIA^NILE  STORY  WTIITING 

other  will  serve  only  to  produce  a  static  condi- 
tion. 

"VMiile  aU  of  these  changes  are  of  value  in  sus- 
taining interest,  a  very  fundamental  service  to 
the  story  lies  in  keeping  the  situation  the  same. 
"WTien  Robinson  Crusoe  leaves  his  island  we  are 
finished  with  him.  "W^ien  the  boys  in  The  Forest 
Castaways  get  out  of  the  woods,  the  interest  of 
the  story  is  ended.  Little  Women  belongs  to 
Concord,  and  no  reader  desires  to  have  its  char- 
acters shifted  or  their  condition  radically 
changed.  When  Inger  Johanne  shows  signs  of 
growing  up  and  her  family  moves  to  a  new  place, 
we  realize  that  her  story  is  done.  In  stories  like 
these  the  same  setting  is  necessary  to  the  plot, 
the  same  general  condition  of  life  is  essential  to 
show  development.  The  writer  presents  a  prob- 
lem to  the  reader  in  the  beginning  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  offer  for  it  a  real  solution,  real  in  the 
sense  that  the  hero  works  it  out  for  himself  with- 
out aid  from  change  in  environment.  To  many 
readers  such  realism  as  opposed  to  the  romantic 
affords  deeper  satisfaction  in  that  it  sounds  true 
and  stimulates  him  to  similar  endeavors. 

The  introduction  of  new  characters,  if  they  can 
be  made  an  integral  part  of  the  story,  should 
result  in  added  interest.  The  writer  has  the 
double  responsibility  of  keeping  the  new  character 
secondary  to  the  person  about  whom  the  story 
centres,  and  of  making  him  at  the  same  time  the 
kind  of  person  without  whom  the  story  could  not 


PROBLEM  OF  SUSTAINING  INTEREST    215 

progress.  The  new  actor  must  not  draw  atten- 
tion away  from  the  movement  of  the  story  as  far 
as  it  has  gone,  he  must  not  serve  to  split  up  the 
interest  of  the  reader  among  too  many  people; 
yet  he  must  at  once  become  essential  to  the 
further  development  of  the  story  and  he  must 
hold  himself  inconspicuously  but  firmly  to  his  job 
until  it  is  finished. 

The  question  arises :  At  how  late  a  point  in  the 
story  is  it  possible  to  introduce  a  new  character? 
The  time  of  introduction  of  the  characters  in  a 
book  is  as  important  as  it  is  on  the  stage.  If 
when  the  curtain  first  rises,  the  child  sees  too 
many  people  at  once,  he  becomes  entirely  con- 
fused as  to  their  identity.  Unless  a  writer  can 
definitely  characterize  his  people  in  the  opening 
sentences  so  that  the  child  has  an  unmistakable 
impression  of  each,  he  will  lose  clarity  and 
permanence  of  effect.  Out  of  the  large  group  the 
child  is  unable  to  pick  the  one  upon  whom  he 
wishes  to  focus,  his  attention  is  scattered  and,  in 
the  scattering,  weakened.  If  the  writer  intro- 
duces his  characters  as  individuals,  not  as  a 
group,  he  will  bring  each  one  in  as  the  action  of 
the  story  demands  his  presence.  Then  the  way 
in  which  the  newcomer  attacks  his  part  of  the 
problem  will  help  to  characterize  him  at  once. 
Quite  possibly,  a  person  rather  vital  to  the  out- 
come of  the  story  may  not  appear  until  late  in 
the  book.  But  even  if  he  is  not  needed  on  the 
spot  until  then,  his  entrance  must  be  preceded 


216         JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

by  such  a  preparation  that  he  is  not  a  stranger 
up  to  the  time  of  his  appearance.  A  great  deal 
of  interest  may  be  aroused  in  a  person  before  his 
actual  presence,  through  reference  to  him  and  the 
things  for  which  he  stands.  Anticipation  is  al- 
ways a  large  factor  in  interest  and  it  is  that  feel- 
ing of  expectancy  which  is  stirred  by  this  prelim- 
inary treatment  of  the  character.  Test  your  new 
character  then  in  two  ways :  Has  he  had  sufficient 
preparation  to  make  his  entrance  expected  and 
desired?  Is  he  so  essential  to  the  plot  that  he 
at  once  becomes  woven  into  its  fibre  and  remains 
necessary  to  its  strength?  If  he  is  sufficiently 
motivated  and  if  he  is  essential  to  the  story,  do 
not  hesitate  to  bring  him  in  at  any  point  in  the 
action. 

In  the  story  of  Little  Women  Laurie  does  not 
appear  until  we  have  become  acquainted  with  the 
girls,  and  until  he  is  needed  to  sustain  interest 
in  their  activities.  Still  later  his  grandfather  is 
introduced  and  he  begins  at  once  to  help  guide 
the  destiny  of  the  story.  The  book  of  Heidi 
begins  with  the  story  of  the  child  and  her  grand- 
father, then  it  opens  wider  to  include  the  people 
with  whom  Heidi  is  associated  in  the  city,  then 
gradually  it  closes  again  to  the  characters  with 
whom  it  opened,  Heidi  and  her  grandfather. 
Forest  Castaways  introduces  a  strange  man  well 
after  the  reader  is  plunged  into  the  story  of  the 
boys'  struggle  in  the  woods,  but  he  helps  to  solve 
their  problem. 


PROBLEM  OF  SUSTAINING  INTEREST    217 

The  complication  of  plot,  which,  as  we  have 
noted,  heightens  the  human  interest  in  a  story, 
often  is  connected  with  changes  of  scene  or  con- 
dition or  with  the  introduction  of  new  characters. 
While  that  complication  must  occur  promptly  in 
a  short  story,  the  structure  of  the  book  permits 
justified  delay. 

A  book,  whether  it  is  adult  or  juvenile,  usually 
tries  to  maintain  its  effect  through  the  gradual 
heightening  of  emotional  interest.  If  as  some- 
times happens  in  juvenile  books  the  chapters  are 
loosely  strung  and  disconnected,  their  cumulative 
effect  is  lost.  Mehitahle,  though  a  charming  pic- 
ture of  French  school  life,  has  little  of  emotional 
dependence  in  its  different  chapters.  As  a  result 
the  reader  leaves  the  story  with  a  sense  of  pleas- 
ure in  its  foreign  material,  but  of  indifference 
toward  Mehitable  who  as  its  chief  character 
should  have  motivated  the  weaving  of  the  ma- 
terial into  an  emotional  unit.  Such  a  holding  of 
emotional  interest  is  not  to  be  confused  with  the 
pattern  used  in  girls'  series  where  each  book 
takes  the  heroine  through  more  or  less  senti- 
mental experiences  with  the  obvious  end  in  view 
of  leaving  her  in  the  arms  of  a  young  man.  The 
emotional  interest  to  which  we  refer  is  apart 
from  sentimentality.  A  book  like  High  Benton, 
for  instance,  succeeds  in  using  this  emotional 
growth  to  hold  the  reader  through  a  theme  which 
is  based  upon  the  developing  power  of  work. 
This  heightening  of  interest  depends  upon  a  cen- 


218  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

tral  theme  or  problem  which  is  being  worked  out. 
The  preceding  chapter  on  Chapter  Arrangement 
and  Development  discusses  in  detail  the  relation 
between  this  central  problem  and  the  separate 
chapters. 

How  to  end  the  hooh 

The  last  problem  which  confronts  the  writer 
is  how  to  finish  up  his  book.  Here  again  he  has 
a  different  problem  from  that  of  the  writer  of 
adult  books.  Mark  Twain  sums  up  the  difficulty 
in  his  conclusion  of  Tom  Sawyer. 

So  endeth  this  chronicle.  It  being  strictly  the  history 
of  a  hoy,  it  must  stop  here ;  the  story  could  not  go  much 
further  without  becoming  the  history  of  a  man.  When 
one  writes  a  novel  about  grown  people,  he  knows  exactly 
where  to  stop — that  is,  with  a  marriage;  but  when  he 
writes  of  juveniles,  he  must  stop  where  he  best  can. 

Yet  Mark  Twain  would  have  admitted  that 
some  stopping  points  are  better  than  others.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Tom  Saivyer  was  a  series  of 
adventures  to  develop  the  theme  of  what  a  real 
boy  gets  out  of  life.  AMien  the  theme  was  finished 
with  Tom's  manhood,  the  book  was  finished. 

In  the  same  way  the  adventures  of  Inger  Jo- 
hanne  are  limited  in  time.  The  author  uses  space 
limitation  to  determine  their  length,  by  taking 
Inger  away  from  the  locality  which  had  served 
as  their  background.  The  story  ends  with  the 
scene  on  the  boat. 


PROBLEM  OF  SUSTAINING  INTEREST    219 

But  I  still  stood  there,  looking  back  and  looking  back 
at  the  gray  hills.  Among  thcni  I  had  lived  my  whole 
life  long! 

Other  liills  and  islands  came  into  view  and  the  sea 
splashed  up  over  them,  but  not  one  of  them  did  I  know. 

How  strange  that  was ! 

Nevertheless,  I  suddenly  felt  awfully  glad,  and  I 
began  to  sing  at  the  top  of  my  voice  to  the  old  tune 
(no  one  heard  me,  the  sea  roared  so  mightily). 

"  Oh  !    I  love  to  travel,  travel ! ' ' 

The  reader  is  allowed  to  say  goodbye  to  Inger 
Johanne,  and  he  leaves  her  with  more  of  a  sense 
of  propriety  than  if  he  had  been  dragged  off 
suddenly  at  the  end  of  a  particularly  enthralling 
adventure. 

The  book  may  finish  on  a  climax.  Mystery 
stories  usually  work  up  to  a  surprise  ending  and 
stop  sliort  at  that  point.  More  often  in  books 
for  children  a  denouement  follows  which  takes 
care  of  the  loose  ends,  if  there  are  any  left  after 
the  climax,  and  leaves  them  in  compact  and  sat- 
isfactory shape  for  the  understanding  of  the 
child's  mind.  It  may  explain  the  effect  upon  the 
characters  of  w^hat  happened  in  the  climax,  what 
they  did  afterwards,  what  form  their  living  hap- 
pily forever  took  on.  In  this  case  the  ending 
takes  the  form  of  prophecy,  a  favorite  device  of 
writers  of  girls'  stories. 

An  anti-climax  is  an  unfortunate  method  of 
ending  a  book.  Some  writers,  like  callers  saying 
goodbye,  seem  unable  to  leave.  Even  the  most 
cherished  of  companions  whether  in  books  or  life 


220  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

becomes  wearying  if  she  keeps  one  standing  too 
long. 

An  ending  which  leaves  the  solution  of  the  story- 
open,  like  that  of  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger,  would 
be  entirely  out  of  the  question  for  a  juvenile  book. 
Such  an  ending  would  antagonize  a  child  vio- 
lently.   He  would,  and  rightly,  feel  tricked. 

Some  books  finish  with  retrospect,  like  Little 
Women,  which  leaves  Mrs.  March  and  her  daugh- 
ters taUdng  together  under  a  tree.  Each  girl 
reviews  in  turn  what  life  has  brought  her,  and 
the  curtain  goes  down  as  it  went  up  with  a  char- 
acteristic speech  from  each. 

Or  the  story  may  end  in  an  explanation,  as  in 
Five  Little  Peppers,  where  the  relationship  of 
the  Kings  and  the  Peppers  becomes  clear  through 
old  Mr.  King's  explanation  via  Phronsie.  Such 
an  ending  is  not  exactly  like  that  of  the  surprise 
ending  because  the  explanation  is  not  the  solu- 
tion of  the  entire  theme  of  the  book,  rather  that 
of  a  secondary  issue  which  will  perhaps  stimulate 
the  reader  to  ask  for  another  book. 

Many  books  for  children  end  with  a  hint  of  the 
next  of  a  series,  some  openly  announcing  that 
the  reader  wnll  hear  no  more  of  the  cliaractors 
unless  he  buys  the  next  book,  others  more  subtly 
leaving  a  situation  which  is  open  to  further  treat- 
ment. 

The  actual  handling  used  in  finishing  the  last 
chapter  will  be  determined  by  the  effect  which  the 
autlior  wishes  to  make;  he  may  leave  his  char- 


PROBLEM   OF  SUSTAINING  INTEREST    221 

acters  informally  in  dialogue  or  more  formally 
by  exposition;  he  may  assemble  them  in  a  group 
and  allow  the  reader  to  say  goodbye  to  every- 
body, or  he  may  clear  the  stage  for  his  principal 
actor  in  order  to  focus  the  final  impression  of 
the  child,  lie  may  let  the  curtain  go  down  on  a 
closing  picture  which  will  suggest  without  any 
action  the  situation  as  it  is  left.  The  writer 
must  not  stop  so  abruptly  that  his  reader  is  not 
sure  the  story  is  finished  and  turns  another  page 
to  see,  yet  at  the  same  time  he  must  secure  a  feel- 
ing of  finality  without  diffuseness. 

If  in  the  book  the  writer  has  worked  out  a 
good  central  plot  so  that  the  solution  of  that  plot, 
or  the  real  climax  comes  toward  the  end  of  the 
book,  he  will  have  in  the  first  place  the  surest 
method  for  sustaining  interest  throughout.  The 
reader's  curiosity,  his  desire  to  see  the  problem 
solved,  can  be  depended  upon  to  hold  him.  In 
the  second  place,  the  writer  will  have  achieved 
an  effective  ending  for  his  book.  The  particular 
form  this  ending  w^ill  take  will  be  determined  by 
his  material.  A  good  ending  should  fulfill  certain 
obligations;  the  reader  ought  to  be  left  with  a 
feeling  of  satisfaction  and  a  sense  of  the  com- 
pleteness of  the  book.  He  should  at  the  same 
time  be  sorry  that  the  book  is  finislied ;  better  that 
he  wish  it  to  be  longer  than  shorter. 


CHAPTEE  XV 

Stories  About  Children  for  Adults 

Much  water  has  flowed  under  the  bridge  since 
Emmy  Lou  and  Phoebe  and  Ernest  first  appeared 
among  us.  Phoebe  has  led  a  long  procession  of 
increasingly  sophisticated  flappers  through  our 
Hbraries,  Ernest  marches  beside  her  with  his  trail 
of  adolescent  boys,  little  Emmy  Lou  has  ushered 
in  many  troubled  childish  followers,  and  Myra 
Kelly's  East  Side  brood  has  enlarged  to  include 
the  struggling  American  offspring  of  every  na- 
tion. 

Stories  about  children  for  adults  have  become 
as  usual  as  stories  about  adults  for  children,  and 
much  more  popular.  The  child  has  his  limita- 
tions of  grasp  when  it  comes  to  the  love  affairs 
of  the  grown-up  princess;  the  adult  has  at  least 
been  a  child  even  if  he  has  clipped  pretty  closely 
any  trailing  cloud-ends  of  the  period.  Even  those 
of  us  who  have  cherished  most  carefully  the  odds 
and  ends  which  we  can  enlarge  from  memory 
realize  that  they  are  but  odds  and  ends  and  no 
matter  how  painstakingly  put  together  will  make 
but  a  patchwork  quilt,  poor  substitute  for  the 
lovely  fabric  which  each  snippet  represents.    Yet 

222 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN  223 

each  writer  who  is  able  to  give  to  us  new  squares 
for  our  quilt  earns  our  gratitude.  To  us  he  has 
renewed  a  brief  memory  of  the  beauty,  the  laugh- 
ter, and  the  tears  we  had  forgotten ;  he  has  illum- 
inated for  us  the  significance  of  these  emotions 
in  our  children. 

Phoebe  and  Ernest  were  not  pioneers  in  the 
usual  sense.  Other  stories  about  children  had 
preceded  them.  Little  Eva  might  have  been  their 
grandmother.  But  Phoebe  and  Ernest  were  ordi- 
nary middle-class  youngsters,  masters  of  the 
Thesaurus  of  slang,  quarrelsome,  egoistic,  moved 
to  absurdities  by  adolescent  emotions,  beautiful 
with  the  beauty  of  growing  youth.  The  adult 
read  them,  laughed  at  them,  suffered  secretly,  and 
turned  his  illuminated  eye  on  his  young  relatives. 
*'Such  was  I  with  no  one  who  had  sense  enough 
to  understand;  such  may  they  be  in  spite  of 
their — "  whatever  characteristic  it  is  which  an- 
noys him  most. 

"Writers  got  the  point,  girded  up  their  loins, 
and  thus  began  the  modern  drive  upon  childhood 
as  fiction  material.  Like  most  drives,  consider- 
able energy  has  been  wasted  in  proportion  to 
results.  Sentimental  drivel  has  been  the  quality 
of  much  of  the  contribution.  The  writer  who 
cannot  handle  the  doings  of  the  child  without 
crocodile  tears  and  empty  smiles  and  yearning 
sighs,  had  better  keep  away  from  this  brand  of 
fiction.    Children  are  not  sentimental  about  each 


224  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

other;  any  piece  of  work  which  aims  at  the  illu- 
sion of  reality  needs  to  follow  their  example. 

Curiously  enough,  the  gift  of  honest  insight 
and  sincere  expression  seems  sometimes  to  have 
a  temporary  quality.  T\Tien  J.  D.  Daskam  wrote 
The  Madness  of  Philip,  and  Ardelia  in  Arcady, 
she  achieved  two  stories  which  are  quite  perfect 
in  their  way:  keen,  humorous,  satirical,  sympa- 
thetic, inimitable.  Years  after  when  she  has 
had  first-hand  experience  with  a  family  of  her 
own,  she  perpetrates  On  Our  Hill,  affected,  dull, 
unreal,  the  kind  of  a  thing  that  any  New  Jersey 
mother  with  three  children  is  moved  to  produce. 

Philip's  orgy  of  badness  with  the  inexpressibly 
indiscreet  Marantha,  Eddy  Brown  whom  Froebel 
had  in  mind  in  elaborating  his  educational 
schemes,  the  fall  and  surrender  of  Philip  until 
his  heart  becomes  God's  little  garden — nothing 
can  approach  this  entertaining  satire  unless  it  is 
Ardelia 's  treatment  of  the  milk  question,  her 
protest  against  country  quiet  and  her  recognition 
that  *'N'Yawk's  the  place!"  Probably  one  rea- 
son for  our  enjoyment  of  Ardelia  is  that  she 
serves  to  help  rationalize  our  inability  to  bring 
the  country  to  the  city  children. 

In  these  stories  Miss  Daskam  has  certain  assets 
which  contribute  to  her  success.  She  has  an  un- 
derlying idea  firm  enough  to  build  on  but  as  in- 
conspicuous as  any  good  foundation,  she  has  a 
vocabulary  rich  with  humor,  she  has  an  original 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         225 

turn  to  her  phrasing,  and  she  has  an  unsparing 
eye  on  the  relation  of  the  adult  to  the  child. 

Fiction  children  are  amusing  or  they  are  pa- 
thetic in  much  the  same  way  that  animals  in 
stories  are  amusing  or  pathetic.  The  adult  sees 
the  absurdity  or  pathos  which  is  entirely  outside 
the  experience  or  intelligence  of  the  subjects,  and 
he  weeps  or  laughs  at  them,  not  with  them.  Booth 
Tarkington  gains  his  humorous  effect  largely 
through  the  quality  of  his  dialogue.  The  situa- 
tion travels  along  through  the  medium  of  the  chil- 
dren's speech  and  gains  thereby  the  flavor  which 
any  other  form  of  writing  would  lack.  No  one 
needs  to  explain  Penrod  or  Daisy;  they  manage 
to  interpret  themselves  quite  fluently.  Few 
writers  have  so  successfully  captured  the  exact 
fling  of  the  child's  tongue;  few  have  had  the 
skill  to  combine  it  with  a  power  of  selection. 
Tarkington 's  dialogue,  while  apparently  a  phono- 
graphic reproduction  in  quality,  is  yet  limited 
enough  in  quantity  to  secure  interest,  and  sig- 
nificant enough  in  meaning  to  make  the  story 
move. 

Children  seem  always  to  have  been  an  endless 
source  of  amusement  and  have  served  to  inject 
humor  into  many  an  otherwise  dreary  screed. 
They  have  never  failed  the  author  when  he 
has  needed  a  centre  of  pathos  around  which  the 
elder's  affairs  revolve  or  a  machine  to  bring 
together  the  ravelled  ends  of  misspent  lives.  The 
movie  has  taken  them  over  in  such  capacity  and 


226  Jin^ENILE  STORY  WRITING 

finds  them  very  profitable.  But  as  a  medium  of 
tragedy  they  have  been  almost  untouched.  Kip- 
ling saw  their  possibility  and  he  has  given  us  one 
of  the  most  stark  little  figures  in  fiction.  His 
Little  Tobrah  in  a  scant  four  pages  sears  his 
image  everlastingly  into  the  reader's  mind. 

**I  went  forward;  but  I  cannot  say  whither  I  went 
and  there  was  no  more  food  for  myself  or  the  sister. 
And  upon  a  hot  night,  she  weeping  and  calling  for 
food,  we  came  to  a  well,  and  I  bade  her  sit  upon  the 
kerb,  and  thrust  her  in,  for,  in  truth,  she  could  not  see; 
and  it  is  better  to  die  than  to  starve. ' ' 

The  Biblical  simplicity  of  narrative,  the  entire 
omission  of  words  descriptive  of  sentiment,  the 
child's  undeplored  acceptance  of  life  as  it  is;  not 
one  word  could  be  withdrawn  without  loss. 

*'Ai!  Ahi!"  wailed  the  grooms'  wives  in  chorus; 
*'he  thrust  her  in,  for  it  is  better  to  die  than  to  starve!" 

Thus  the  Greek  chorus  points  up  the  tragedy 
of  the  tale. 

**I  would  have  thrown  myself  in  also,  but  that  she 
was  not  dead  and  cr.lled  to  me  from  the  bottom  of  the 
well,  and  I  was  afraid  and  ran." 

Try  to  rewrite  this  sentence  if  you  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  finality  of  its  achievement.  Insert, 
as  an  ordinary  writer  would,  the  despair  of  the 
boy  which  drives  him  to  decide  to  follow  his 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         227 

sister,  the  effect  of  her  voice  from  the  well  on 
him,  his  emotion  of  fear,  his  flight;  then  reread 
Kipling's  sentence: 

''And  one  came  out  of  the  crops  saying  that  I  had 
killed  her  and  defiled  the  well,  and  they  took  me  before 
an  Englishman,  white  and  terrible,  living  in  a  tent,  and 
me  he  sent  here." 

Thus  in  one  sentence  is  the  rest  of  the  story 
disposed  of: 

"But  there  were  no  witnesses,  and  it  is  better  to  die 
than  to  starve.  She,  furthermore,  could  not  see  with 
her  eyes,  and  was  but  a  little  child," 

Read  this  and  stop.  AVliat  do  you  find  your 
mind  repeating?  *'Was  but  a  little  child — was 
but  a  little  child — "  does  it  not?  ''Was  but  a 
little  child,"  echoed  the  Head  Groom's  wife.  She, 
like  us,  has  no  comment  beyond  these  words  of 
Tobrah.  And  here  follows  the  only  description 
of  the  boy  except  these  words  which  open  the 
story:  "Prisoner's  head  did  not  reach  to  the  top 
of  the  'desk.'' 

"But  who  art  thou,  weak  as  a  fowl,  and  small  as  a 
day-old  colt,  what  art  tliou!" 

"I  who  was  empty  am  now  full,"  said  Little  Tobrah, 
stretching  himself  upon  the  dust.  "And  I  would 
sleep. ' ' 

The  groom's  wife  spread  a  cloth  over  him  while  Little 
Tobrah  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 


228  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

The  tale  is  done.  Little  Tobrah  has  nothing 
further  to  say.    Kipling  lays  down  his  pen. 

But  could  we?  Not  if  I  know  us!  We  would 
according  to  temperament  deplore  the  boy's  sin- 
ful nature,  mourn  over  the  system  which  pro- 
duces such  tragedies,  or  present  the  hero  with  a 
devoted  pair  of  foster  parents.  Kipling  let  him 
alone.  You  may  shudder  and  shut  the  book, 
but  that  does  not  matter.  Little  Tobrah  has 
come  out  of  the  covers  and  is  now  and  forever 
in  you. 

Besides  the  varieties  of  humorous  and  pathetic 
stories  and  the  rare  tragedy,  the  stories  about 
children  often  take  another  form  which  might  be 
termed  the  idealistic  group.  Such  a  group  in- 
cludes stories  in  which  events  happening  to  adults 
are  given  through  the  children  as  seen  and  in- 
terpreted by  them. 

The  modern  novel  frequently  makes  use  of  this 
form  in  the  autobiographical  sketches  of  its  open- 
ing chapters.  The  beginnings  of  May  Sinclair's 
Mary  Olivier  and  Floyd  Dell's  Moon  Calf  are  ex- 
amples of  situations  presented  through  the  view 
point  of  the  child.  Ethel  M.  Kelly's  Beauty  and 
Mary  Blair  gives  the  whole  story  of  the  family 
through  the  medium  of  the  flapper  daughter. 
Dorothy  Canfield  devotes  an  exquisite  chapter  in 
The  Brimming  Cup  to  the  inner  life  of  the  small 
girl,  and  through  it  gives  us  a  curious  kind  of 
awareness  of  the  mother's  problem. 

It  may  be  that  as  modern  psychology  more  and 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         229 

more  emphasizes  the  significance  of  the  happen- 
ings of  chiklhood  on  the  development  of  the  adult, 
the  novelists  become  increasingly  convinced  of 
the  impossibility  of  a  full  understanding  of  their 
heroes  without  some  insight  into  the  factors 
which  brought  about  the  product.  At  any  rate, 
material  which  twenty  years  ago  would  have 
been  considered  entirely  extraneous,  as  belonging 
to  a  phase  of  the  life  of  the  hero  about  which  the 
story  has  nothing  to  do,  is  now  an  interesting  and 
profitable  key  to  the  hero's  adult  reactions  to  life. 
Possibly  another  evidence  of  the  curious  inter- 
locking of  the  arts  and  sciences! 

Have  stories  about  children  for  adults  anything 
in  common  with  what  is  known  as  juvenile  writ- 
ing? The  answer  to  the  question  would  be  more 
obvious  if  writers  of  good  adult  fiction  would 
more  often  attempt  children's  stories.  Dorothy 
Canfield,  for  instance,  writes  successfully  about 
children  and  for  children,  Kipling  will  be  known 
as  long  for  his  children's  stories  as  for  anything 
which  he  has  ever  written.  His  Just  So  Stories 
have  the  incomparable  simplicity  of  Little  To- 
braJi.  Simplicity  of  diction,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
word  of  exact  meaning  without  too  much  effort 
to  make  that  word  the  calibre  of  the  child's  mind 
— which  after  all  more  closely  approximates  our 
own  than  we  like  to  admit — the  swift  sure  sen- 
tence, the  elements  of  a  style  crystal  clear  in  its 
texture  and  manipulated  with  flexible  strength; 
such  diction  is  essential  for  the  material  of  youth. 


230  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Material,  whether  meant  for  children  or  adults, 
demands  a  certain  directness  of  approach.  We 
deal  with  essentials.  We  must  face  them  without 
deviousness.  The  child  is  more  or  less  primitive, 
no  matter  how  you  deal  with  him,  and  direct  ap- 
proach to  him  and  to  things  pertaining  to  him  is 
appropriate.  Complexity  and  deviousness  are  as 
much  out  of  place  as  an  Oriental  rug  in  a  New 
England  farm  house. 

Whether  writing  for  or  about  children,  sin- 
cerity must  he  part  of  the  writer's  equipment. 
Sincerity  is  a  large  order  and  one  that  most  of 
us,  if  we  stop  to  consider  our  collection  of  ready- 
made  ideas,  would  find  hard  to  fill.  We  do  not 
know  whether  we  really  think  so  and  so  because 
we  are  not  quite  sure  where  we  got  the  idea  or 
just  how  we  are  going  to  find  it  serviceable.  But 
until  we  got  filled  up  with  other  people 's  opinions, 
we  were  pretty  sincere,  with  the  kind  of  funda- 
mental sincerity  which  drives  youth  to  interrogate 
life  and  demand  from  it  reality.  Just  when  we 
slip  over  into  accepting  substitutes  for  reality  we 
do  not  know ;  but  we  do  know  that  if  we  are  going 
back  to  the  material  of  youth,  we  must  do  it  in 
all  sincerity.  Reality  has  become  once  more  the 
inexorable  demand. 

In  The  Wilderness  Rockwell  Kent  deals  with 
life  stripped  to  its  fundamentals.  He  and  his 
boy  shut  themselves  up  with  the  dark  beauty  of 
the  North,  not  for  exploration  or  adventure  but 
for  the  sake  of  its  beauty  only.    And  through  the 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         231 

father  and  son,  the  enchantment  of  tlie  North  is 
revealed  to  the  reader,  terrible,  miraculous,  flaw- 
less, like  the  great  northern  lights  themselves.  It 
pervades  their  isolation  and  their  peril,  and  makes 
luminous  their  relation  to  each  other.  Stark  es- 
sentials demand  impeccable  honesty  of  treatment ; 
the  situation  is  relentless  in  its  purpose.  Kent 
fulfills  his  obligations  with  something  more  than 
dexterity  of  words  and  illustrations.  He  is  the 
sun  glass  through  which  the  beauty  focusses  on 
his  paper  into  burning  words  and  pictures.  Nor 
does  he  deviate  from  his  clarity  and  simplicity  in 
his  interpretation  of  his  boy.  He  plumbs  the 
child  with  the  same  acuteness  that  he  tests  color 
and  distance,  and  he  renders  him  with  the  same 
precision.  The  Wilderness  in  theme,  in  penetra- 
tion of  treatment,  in  style,  offers  a  rare  example 
to  the  writer  of  the  adult  book  which  deals  with 
the  child. 

Most  important  of  all  and  most  obvious,  though 
perhaps  most  neglected,  is  the  qualification  which 
must  be  common  to  writers  of  all  child  material, 
that  of  understanding  of  children.  And  if  you 
will  be  so  good  as  to  think  over  all  of  the  people 
you  know  and  put  in  one  group  those  who  you  feel 
sure  understand  children,  the  size  of  the  group 
will  convince  you  of  the  scarcity  of  this  last  qual- 
ification. Then,  perhaps,  if  you  will  finish  the 
exercise  by  comparing  the  relative  size  of  your 
groups   with   the   enormous   output   of   juvenile 


232  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

writing,  you  will  have  food  for  thought  about  the 
quality  of  that  output. 

Yet  though  certain  characteristics  of  writer  and 
writing  are  held  in  common  for  those  who  write 
for  or  about  children,  differences  in  the  effects  to 
be  gained  are  equally  important. 

A  story  about  a  child  which  is  interwoven  with 
the  threads  of  adult  living  is  infinitely  subtle  in 
its  effect  on  the  reader.  In  the  child  mirror  we 
see  moving  about  adult  figures,  oblivious  that 
they  are  being  watched  but  furnishing  to  the  wit- 
ness clues  which  make  of  him  a  skilful  detective 
of  destiny.  To  attain  that  subtlety,  the  writer 
must  place  the  mirror  in  his  child's  hands  and 
then  stand  off  to  determine  the  most  illuminating 
point  of  view.  The  point  of  view  of  the  child 
himself  with  the  author  behind  him  to  point  out 
and  select  but  never  to  invent,  is  the  one  which 
the  biographical  writer  uses.  The  satirical 
amused  observer  as  in  The  Madness  of  Philip, 
and  Ardelia,  the  sympathetic  comrade  as  in 
'Jeremy,  the  sentimental  friend  who  reflects  the 
colors  of  calcium  lights  into  the  mirror  as  in  too 
many  stories  to  name,  each  of  these  presents  a 
different  effect  to  the  reader. 

The  plot  of  the  juvenile  story  is  a  kind  of 
struggle  and  outcome  which  should  lie  within  the 
experience  of  the  readers.  Not  that  the  youngster 
must  have  actually  partaken  of  the  feats  of  his 
book  hero,  but  he  must  have  some  experience  by 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         233 

which  he  can  understand  them  and  make  them  his 
own.  The  plot  of  the  story  about  children,  in- 
volved as  it  may  be  with  the  affairs  of  elders,  is 
limited  in  its  requisites  only  as  the  plot  of  any 
adult  story. 

Thus  though  certain  characteristics  are  funda- 
mental in  handling  stories  which  pertain  to  chil- 
dren, it  is  obvious  that  in  plot  and  aim  the  two 
groups  under  discussion  may  be  widely  apart. 
But  under  any  conditions,  the  spirit  of  a  child  is 
an  elusive  thing  to  capture  in  print.  With  the 
best  of  intention  and  skill,  it  loses  some  of 
its  iridescence  from  handling.  Let  no  one  think 
that  children  are  easy  material  to  begin  upon. 
Adults  are  artificial  enough  in  mental  and  phys- 
ical activity  to  permit  them  to  revel  in  even 
greater  artificiahty  of  fiction.  Childhood  is  gen- 
uine and  the  writer,  in  whatever  form  he  means 
to  deal  with  it,  must  approach  it  with  intrinsic 
sincerity  of  feeling  and  with  veracity  of  expres- 
sion. 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN  FOR  ADULTS 

Beer,  Thomas. 

Little  Eva  Ascends. 
Bkubaker,  Howard. 

Ranny  Stories. 
Canfield,  Dorothy, 

Chapters  in  The  Bent  Twig  and  The  Brimming  Cup. 


234  JUVENILE  STORY  WRITING 

Daskam,  Josephine  Dodge. 

The  Madness  of  Philip. 
Dell,  Floyd. 

Were  You  Ever  a  Child  f 

The  beginning  chapters  of  Moon-Calf. 
GiLMORE,  Inez  Haynes. 

Phoebe  and  Ernest. 
Grahame,  Kenneth. 

Golden  Age. 
Hull,  Helen  E. 

The  beginning  chapters  of  Quest. 
James,  Henry. 

A  Small  Boy  and  Others. 
Kelly,  Ethel  M. 

Beauty  and  Mary  Blair. 
Kelly,  Myra.  : 

Little  Citizens.  k 

Kent,  Rockwell. 

Wilderness.  j; 

Kipling,  Rudyard.  .«; 

Little  Tobrah.  t 

Rikki  Tikki  Tavi.  ^ 

Wee  Willie  Winkie.  J 

Martin,  George  IVIadden.  | 

Emmy  Lou. 

MiNNIGERODE,  MeADE. 

Laughing  House. 
RiNEiiART,  Mary  Roberts. 

Bab,  the  Sub-deb. 
Sinclair,  May. 

The  beginning  chapters  of  Mary  Olivier. 

The  beginning  chapters  of  Tree  of  Heaven. 

The    beginning    chapters    of    Lifo   and   Death   of 
Harriet  Frean. 
Tarkington,  Booth. 

Penrod. 

Seventeen. 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN         235 


VoRSE,  Mary  IIeaton. 

Growing  Up. 

The  Prestons. 
Walpole,  Hugh. 

Goldeii  Scarecrow. 

Jeremy. 
Wells,  H.  G. 

Joan  and  Peter, 


END 


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